Initially, I Thought
by WRTRD
Summary: Beckett reads something she shouldn't in Castle's office. Set immediately after 2x18 "Boom!" Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

She's not a snoop. She knows that she has her share of shortcomings, but that's not one of them. Well, technically she's a snoop: since she's an NYPD detective, she's a professional snoop. She has a right to snoop. She's paid to snoop. Commanded to snoop. But personally? No. Even when she was a little girl and found Christmas presents in the closet, all beautifully wrapped and beribboned, she didn't peek under the paper.

A full week has passed since her apartment and almost all its contents were blown up and incinerated–except for her father's watch, which Castle had somehow rescued and had repaired. She's staying in his loft, in the guest room that's twice the size of her now reduced-to-rubble bedroom. The bathroom looks like something that the Museum of Modern Art would produce, if MoMA produced tubs, showers, tiles, vanities, and cabinets. The first couple of nights she'd been grateful but anxious. Once they had closed the case her anxiety had dissipated, but it should have been replaced by another kind of anxiety–namely, how she would ever find an apartment to equal the one she'd had, on her salary. She'd gotten the first on a fluke, and you don't win Manhattan Apartment Lotto twice in a lifetime.

Yet here she is, luxuriating in the loft and devoting not even a passing thought to looking for a new place. She'll allow herself a few more days. Nothing wrong with that. She's staying here at Castle's invitation and insistence, after all. Still, in her quietest moments she acknowledges, though to no one but herself and only fleetingly, that she could happily stay here forever. With him, forever. Castle and his family have been wonderful to her, giving her space and time but also embracing her. In Martha's case, literally: it's like being hugged by a perfumed butterfly. She's here alone for the weekend, though: Castle is accompanying Alexis on a sophomore class trip to Philadelphia and Martha is at a retreat in the Berkshires.

"Retreat from what, exactly, Mother?" Castle had asked over breakfast yesterday.

"The material world, darling," she'd replied airily.

"And yet it's setting my material wealth back three thousand dollars."

"Mmm," she'd said, sipping her power juice. No need to pursue the argument, apparently.

The place is hers for two days. It's miserable out, sleeting and windy. An hour or so ago, while she'd been savoring her first coffee of the morning, she had retrieved _The New York Times_ from the mat outside the front door. One of the advantages of being a home-delivery subscriber is that you get certain sections of the Sunday paper, including the Magazine, on Saturday. It's the Magazine she'd wanted, because that's where the crossword puzzle–long her secret pleasure–is. She prides herself on doing it in pen, but on the chance that someone here is also a puzzle fan, she'd decided to work the grid in pencil. When she'd finished, and she always finishes, she'd erase it.

That's how the snooping had begun. It had been an accident, really. She hadn't set out to snoop. Not like Castle, the Sultan of Snooping. The Pasha of Prying. The Count of Curiosity. No, she'd just been looking for a pencil. Simple as that. And yet, not so simple.

The kitchen drawers contained no pencils. Neither did her otherwise astonishingly well-equipped bedroom. (The nightstand even has a box of blue stationery, a book of stamps, two pens, a tin of blackberry lozenges, a sleep mask, and ear plugs.) She'd had no intention of going into anyone else's bedroom to look, and she hadn't. The obvious place to search, even if she weren't a detective, had been Castle's office. Right there on his desk she'd seen a small porcelain jug sprouting a half dozen of her favorite pencil, the magnificent Palomino Blackwing 602, with a replaceable eraser. Oooh, another thing that she and Castle have in common. Wait, what? They have nothing in common. Well, maybe a few things. Maybe quite a lot of things, but she's shoving that thought to the darkest corner in the back of her own metaphorical desk drawer.

While pulling out a pencil, she'd knocked over the little jug and the silvery-gray Blackwings had gone everywhere. One had landed squarely on top of a fat, purple file folder in the middle of his desk, next to his laptop. She'd been surprised that he had such a thing, but there it was. When she'd retrieved the pencil, his clear handwriting on the tab had caught her eye. "KB notes," he'd labeled it. With a little heart. Yes, a heart. What the hell?

That had been at least five minutes ago, and she's still staring at the folder. It's not new, and it's well-used. He's probably had it for years. The upper right-hand corner is bent. There's a semi-circular stain, probably left by a coffee mug, near the bottom. He must have opened and closed the thing a hundred times. If the initials KB refer to her, if he has notes about her, left out where anyone could see them, hasn't she the right to read them? Of course she has. "_Mi casa es su casa_," he'd said to her when she'd arrived. "That's all my Spanish. Oh, plus _parate, ladrón_, which is 'stop, thief.' I made Espo tell me. But seriously, I mean it. Make yourself at home. Feel free to do whatever you like here."

OK, then. He'd given her permission. Not just permission, but carte blanche. What's the Spanish equivalent of carte blanche, _carta blanca_? She shakes her head, picks up the folder, and immediately drops it. "_Parate, ladrón_," she mutters. She's a thief. No, that's ridiculous. She's not stealing the thing. Not even taking it out of the room, for God's sake.

She's about to flip it open when something awful occurs to her. What if KB with a heart isn't her at all, but Kyra Blaine? How is it that she, a skilled detective, had never detected that the two of them have the same initials? She and Kyra, the one who got away. His long-lost love who isn't so long-lost. She'd come bursting back into his life during a murder investigation two months ago, and he'd gone all goo-goo over her. But Kyra had gotten married. He's supposed to be over her. That's what he'd said. Over her.

Son of a bitch.

If these are notes about Kyra, they could be evidence, even if she had been cleared in that case. If they're evidence, they shouldn't be in his office but in a closely guarded box in the basement at the Twelfth. There's the matter of the little heart, though, and the folder is purple rather than standard-issue beige. It's probably not evidence, then. Evidence of his love for Kyra, that's all. Still, she should probably look, just to make sure.

Grimacing, with one eye closed, she opens the folder, afraid of what she might find there. It's a fairly hefty bunch of papers, and she riffles through them; some are scribbled notes, others are printouts or letters or forms of some kind. She takes one near the top, which is in Castle's handwriting on a piece of stationery from a five-star hotel in San Francisco. It's dated–wow, five weeks ago. She remembers that crime-writers' conference he went to because for days afterwards he complained about what a hack James Patterson is.

_I wish I knew exactly when I first dreamed about her. A real dream, about the real her, not the sex fantasies I had right after we met that really had nothing to do with her except physically. What she looked like, not what she _is_ like. Not who she is. I think–_

She drops the note as if it were on fire, or transmitting the plague. She doesn't want to read his erotic musings on Kyra Blaine, thank you. He's over her? What a joke. That must be why he's hanging on to this. And yet she's driven to know what else is in here. There's so much, and it's such a strange assortment. Some of it appears to be bank statements–legal papers, too. Castle and Kyra were essentially college kids when they were together, so what is all this stuff? She knows she should put it away and go do her puzzle, except this is another kind of puzzle and the lure of it is too strong to resist. It's painful and enraging, but apparently she's in a masochistic frame of mind. Gloom comes through the unopened windows and settles on her.

Maybe she'll examine a few of these recent bank statements. What are they doing in here? Wait, could Kyra be blackmailing Castle? She seemed so nice, but who knows? Underneath that sweet exterior could be the heart and soul of a viper. If a viper even has a heart. Or a soul.

She selects something from the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust. There are, hmmm, monthly statements from last October onwards, and a letter from the head of the Trust department is clipped to them. She reads it, and immediately reads it again. And then, feeling very wobbly, she sits down hard on the floor, and reads it a third time.

Castle has set up four separate trusts: one for Montgomery, one for Ryan, one for Espo, and one for her. Montgomery gets three percent of the royalties for _Heat Wave_ and any and all future Nikki Heat books; each of the boys gets six percent. She gets 30 percent. No way. No way.

As gobsmacked as she is about the money, what strikes her hardest is that this file folder, everything in it, must indeed be about her. KB with a heart isn't Kyra. She, Kate Beckett, is KB with a heart, just as she'd originally and briefly thought, except this is nothing like what she'd thought it would be. Not that she had really speculated about what was in the folder, but if she had it would have been nothing like this. She shakily extracts another handwritten note.

_Check with Tom_–who's Tom? she wonders–_about the possibility of finding an "affordable" apartment for Beckett. Can I make some sort of deal with a landlord and pay the bulk of the rent? Write a scene that she'll believe in which a great place is affordable? I should be able to concoct that. Just have to get someone to go along with it. There would have to be two different leases, a fake one for Beckett with the lower amount, and one __with the higher amount __for me to lock away. Need it to be legal. Secret but legal. Tom should know._

Tom is probably a real-estate lawyer. Castle probably has a whole string of attorneys, one for every occasion. He had to have written this within the last couple of days, and it's making her seethe. It's patronizing, it's outrageous, it's insulting in so many ways. It makes her feel like a horrible combination of a child and a kept woman. If he came home right now she'd smack him one. She'll sleep on a bunk in the precinct until she finds a place. Plenty of cops do that. She doesn't need him looking after her. She shoves the note back into the folder, and slaps it on top of the desk.

What she needs immediately is another mug of very strong coffee; she'd barely touched her first one and now it's cold. Back in the kitchen, she dumps the contents into the sink and pours herself a fresh mug. It's almost as steaming as she is, which is perfect for her mood.

And then her phone buzzes, right against her butt, and she's so startled that the mug slips from her hand, shattering on the floor and sending coffee all over it and her. "Shit! Owww." She grabs a dishtowel, puts cold water on it, and holds it against her the leg of her jeans. The phone is still ringing and she yanks it from her pocket. "What," she answers, her tone of voice ten times more acidic than the Jamaican Blue Mountain brew that she had been drinking.

"Beckett?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Spilled my coffee."

"Sorry."

She bites her tongue to keep herself from responding, _You should be sorry, you Sugar Daddy wannabe. Paying my rent. God, almighty._ Her actual, if involuntary, response is, "Ouch!"

"What happened?"

"I bit my damn tongue."

"Um, maybe I should call back in a while."

"Fine." She jabs her finger on the fire-engine red, hang-up-the-phone icon. If he were here, she'd jab him even harder in the chest.

She has to clean up this mess before doing anything else, like vacating the premises with all her worldly goods: a toothbrush and her phone. OK, a bit more, but not much. When she takes a step towards the broom closet her bare foot lands on a broken chunk of china. "Ow!" she yelps, not for the first time today. There's a gash across the ball of her foot and part of the instep, and blood is flowing from it like some grotesque tributary into the river of coffee. She reaches for the damp towel that she'd dropped on the counter a moment ago and wraps it clumsily around her foot. "This kitchen looks like a freaking crime scene," she says.

Because she can't get to her bathroom without leaving a trail of O-positive on the stairs, she hobbles to Castle's. It makes the guest bath look like something in a second-rate motel. She's still gaping at it when she realizes that the blood is leaking through the towel onto the tiles. Probably made of unborn marble from some artisanal place in Venice or Florence. With a twinge of guilt she opens the door to the medicine cabinet, but what else can she do? Inside is exactly what she needs, and more–antiseptic cleaner, antibiotic ointment (four varieties), gauze (two widths), and tape (three kinds, including one of hypoallergenic paper). Geez, he has his own personal Urgent Care in here.

Perched on the edge of the magnificent tub, she runs cold water over the long, jagged cut until the bleeding stops. Even after she dresses it, it still hurts like hell. "Get over it, Kate," she grumbles. "This is nothing."

She has to make another attempt to clean the kitchen, preferably without wounding herself again. Even with almost all her weight on one leg, she manages fairly well, and bundles all the fragments into paper towels before dumping them into the wastebasket. It's only when she's wrapping up the largest broken piece that she notices which mug she had destroyed. WORLD'S GREATEST DAD. That's what it used to say, but T DA is all that's legible now. It's his favorite. Was his favorite. He's told her countless times. Alexis picked it out herself for Father's Day, paid for it with her allowance, when she was seven.

His favorite mug. From his little girl. She'd broken it, and suddenly that breaks her. She slides down onto the floor and weeps. She cries for everything that's gone or lost or broken, and at the moment, it feels as though that's almost everything. And just as suddenly, she reconsiders his note about paying part of her rent. He's trying to be kind. And generous. He grew up with very little money, and now that he has it–wealth that he earned, not inherited–he likes to share it. He's misguided, but his heart is in the right place. And just like that, while she's sitting on the chilly floor of the empty loft, her jeans still wet, one foot bandaged and throbbing, her eyes red, and her nose running, her own heart opens up. T DA! Ta da!

But what is she going to say when he comes home? She doesn't want him to think that she's a _snoop_.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

Her next attempt to make and consume a cup of coffee without incident is successful. She had chosen a plain (easy to replace, if need be) mug, filled it, and gingerly carried it to her room. Then she'd limped to the first floor to get the _Times_ Magazine and a Blackwing 602 pencil from Castle's desk, taking special care not to knock anything over. Now she's sitting up in bed, with her bandaged foot propped on a pillow, and her back supported by two more. "Third time's a charm," she says cheerfully after taking a swig of coffee, and sets the intact mug and its unspilled contents on the nightstand next to her.

All police work requires a great deal of repetition and routine, but good police work demands flexibility. In most things, Kate Beckett tries not to be a creature of habit, so when she turns to this crossword puzzle she decides to begin not in the obvious place, the upper left-hand corner, but in the upper right. The clue for 12 across is "Weapon that's thrown." Huh. She's a cop. She's seen all kinds of weapons thrown. A rifle once flew over her shoulder about an inch from her ear. When she was a rookie breaking up a bar fight, a none-too-bright guy grabbed two rolls of quarters from the open cash register and hurled them at her. She ducked, and twenty dollars' worth of coins took out two hundred dollars' worth of bourbon. "Weapon that's thrown," hmm. The answer is not going to be a rifle or coins, even though both those words have the requisite five letters. She checks the clues for the intersecting words reading down. The second, for 13 down, is "Works with numbers."

She taps the eraser against the bridge of her nose before raising the pencil in triumph. "You can't fool me, Will Shortz," she says, addressing the _Times_ puzzle editor who might well be in New York but is most certainly not in the room. "You want me to think that 'works' is a verb. Ha! A diversionary tactic. I bet it's a noun." She considers that for a moment and then, nodding in satisfaction, fills in the blanks: OPUSES. As soon as she does it she realizes that the weapon in 12 across is BOLAS. She writes it in, and congratulates herself with a celebratory triple sip of coffee.

The puzzle is as diverting as always, but today it's not a diversion strong enough to keep her mind from breaking away and zeroing in on that file folder. The one bursting with who knows what about her. She forces herself to focus on the puzzle, and her eyes drift to 35 down. "Give it up, so to speak." Yes, give it up, Castle, she says to herself. Why do you have a folder on me? No, she instructs herself. Don't think about it. But she is thinking about it. Should she peek? No. She shakes her head vigorously to shut down that evil thought. So. How about 36 down? "Reckless."*

Try as she might, she can't stick to the puzzle. Is she reckless? Not really. It can't hurt to look at just one thing in the folder, can it? It's not as though she hasn't already seen something. She can't unsee it. If she has the discipline to eat just one potato chip, then surely she can limit herself to reading just one more scrap of paper. She drops the puzzle on top of the duvet and gets up. If her foot weren't such a wreck she'd be taking the stairs three steps at a time.

When she comes through the door in Castle's office the folder seems to be glowing. She can almost hear it calling out seductively to her. One thing, that's all. Should she go for something from another party, like a lawyer, or something from Castle? She's at the very least intellectually curious about why there are letters from an attorney or attorneys in here, although they're probably related to the trusts that Castle established. But she wants something else. Maybe something handwritten. Maybe something–yes, she admits it–personal.

And then she has a revelation. She'd started to read the note from last month, the one that began _I wish I knew exactly when I first dreamed about her. A real dream, about the real her, not the sex fantasies I had right after we met._ She'd stopped because she'd thought that he'd been writing about Kyra. If she continues to read that, it's the moral equivalent of eating half a potato chip. She'd started it, and put it down. She's just going to finish the chip that she'd taken a bite from a little while ago. That argument might not hold up in a court of law, but she's not in a courtroom. She's in Castle's loft.

She opens the folder and extracts the note. She had stopped reading at "I think" because she hadn't wanted to know what he was thinking about Kyra. But things are different now, things are not what they had seemed, and oh, she does want to know what he thinks about her.

_I think that she's it for me. Not think, know. I know she is. I love the way her mind works, love the way she works a case or a room, love the way her eyes change when she's reading something engrossing. I wonder if she knows that when she's really concentrating she hikes up her left shoulder, maybe a quarter of an inch. It's almost invisible, but not quite. Not the way I watch her. I wonder if she knows that she hums, almost inaudibly, when she's very happy. I wish that she were that happy more often. I know that I could make her happy, but I'd scare the hell out of her if I told her. Not to mention if I told her about the dreams I have of about her, about us. I wish that I knew how to tell her that I can no longer imagine my life without her, that I can no longer bear the idea of a life without her, that no other woman holds any interest for me. I need to figure it out. Why is it so hard?_

Terrified of crinkling the paper, or crying onto it, or fainting on top of it, she hastily refiles it. Her hand is trembling and her breathing is shallow, as if she'd run 10 miles full tilt and were completely dehydrated. She sinks into his desk chair and unconsciously covers her mouth with her hand. _Why is it so hard?_ She feels exactly the same way, but for more complex reasons. Why is it so hard? Why is it so hard to tell him what he has come to mean to her? Why is it so hard to say how she has watched him change, and watched herself change, in the two years that they've been working together? Why is it so hard for to let go of the reins she uses to pull herself in? Why is it so hard to let him in? Why is it so hard to open her heart, open it wide as she never has before? She's a naturally cautious person, but why can't she throw caution away like the guy in the bar who threw 80 tightly-wrapped quarters at her? So what if it breaks something? It won't be her heart. He's not going to break her heart. She's sure of that. And she's not going to break his. She has come to trust Castle, a trust that has grown incrementally without her being aware of it.

She stays at the desk for a long time, turning over everything that she'd just been thinking about, again and again. Suddenly ravenous, she checks her watch. Whoa, she's been here for an hour and a half? Pushing herself up and out of the chair, she looks down. "That was one hell of a half potato chip," she whispers, brushing her hand over the cover of the folder.

Not only is she hungry, she's craving caffeine, and no wonder. She'd forgotten about her first coffee when she'd found that fat file, and it had gotten cold. She'd dropped the second, which had broken the mug, and she had scalded her leg and lacerated her foot. The third one is languishing on her nightstand, so it's now undrinkable, too. In her unwritten rule book, reheated coffee is a crime, so she traipses to the kitchen for a fourth. A grilled cheese sandwich strikes her as just the right thing for a late breakfast or early lunch, and she opens the fridge. There's a cheese drawer in here. Of course there is. A dedicated cheese drawer. She pulls it open and finds, right in the front, a neatly wrapped package with an envelope taped to it, addressed to her. She peels it off and reads, standing in front of the Sub-Zero hulk, her hip keeping the door open.

Dear Beckett,

Remember that case with the vic who was a short-order cook? I saw the crappy orange stuff by the grill and said someone probably killed him for using such awful cheese in his grilled cheese sandwiches. And then you and I had a disagreement about what constituted a great GCS. Here are two chunks of cheese, a really good Gruyère and a really good cheddar, which you should use together for a sensational GCS. When I saw the weather report for the weekend I thought you might be in the mood for something like this, and I promise that your tastebuds will thank you.

Castle

Fine, she'll try it, even though she doubts it will match hers. But she's hungry and Castle did write her a note. Even drew a little mouse sniffing some cheese. It's not until she begins to chew that she realizes how weird it was that he left a note for her in the cheese drawer. Weird but sweet. And yes, adorable. She takes another bite, and another. He wasn't kidding about her tastebuds; if they could sing they'd be serenading him. In several languages, beginning with French. This sandwich–the bread from a bakery around the corner doesn't hurt, either–is unbelievable. It's an orgasmic experience. She's pretty sure that she moaned during the last mouthful. Thank God she's alone.

She licks the plane clean without remorse, and just as she puts it in the sink, her phone rings. Castle again. The man has uncanny timing. Maybe there are hidden cameras in here, and he's watching her. God, no. What a thought. She swipes a finger over the screen.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey, Beckett. How are you? Feeling better?"

"Much. I'm sorry about before. Didn't mean to sound, you know, so cranky."

"Don't apologize."

"Are you having fun with all those tenth-graders? Are you being a model chaperone?"

"I'm a fun chaperone. Much more important."

"Oh, of course. Don't tell that to the parents who aren't there."

"Are you having fun at home alone?"

"Yup."

"Not getting into any mischief, are you?"

This time she almost drops the phone on her already maimed foot. "Mischief?" Afraid that she might have squeaked, lost her celebrated cool for a moment, she takes a deep, steadying breath. "What possible mischief could I get into here, Castle? Now that I've mastered your coffee maker, the Ferrari of kitchen appliances." Is her heart racing? Yes, it is. She can feel it. But her vocal delivery is fine.

"Oh, I dunno. Read my diary, maybe?"

There's no history of cardiac disease in her family, and she's a healthy 30-year-old, but she could have a heart attack right here, and there would be no one to save her. She tries a few more deep breaths.

"Beckett?"

"Sorry, I'm here. Here I am. So, a diary? Didn't think you were a diarist, Castle. Does it have a little lock on it and everything?"

"Samuel Pepys kept a diary," says primly. "And Lewis Carroll. To name just two."

"Fine. You're in stellar company, then." She has to get off this track before it kills her. "Oh, listen. One thing. I have to apologize. You were right about grilled cheese sandwiches."

His laugh tickles her ear. "You found the note, huh?"

"I did. That was really nice of you. I just finished the GCS. It was an erotic experience."

"What? Oh, my God, I wish I'd been there."

"Why?"

"An erotic experience? C'mon, you have to tell me. And don't leave out the good parts."

Her face must be flaming red. She'd said erotic? "Check your hearing, Castle, I said an exotic experience. Exotic. With an X, not an R."

"Nope, you definitely said erotic, with an R. Although if it was an X-rated experience, I really, really regret not being there."

"In your dreams, mister." As soon as she says it, she blushes again. Because she knows that she's already in his dreams. And he's in hers.

TBC

**A/N** Thank you very much for your enthusiastic support for this story. Have a wonderful weekend.

*These are actual clues (and answers) from the most recent _New York Times Sunday_ crossword puzzle (May 19, 2019).


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

It's Saturday afternoon and she has been searching fruitlessly online for a WORLD'S GREATEST DAD mug, from Target to Etsy to Williams Sonoma. They carry them, but each was wrong for a different reason. Furthermore, what she really wants is an exact replacement. She's about to give up when she has a belated inspiration. eBay! That could be the answer. She hasn't been on that site for quite a while and it takes a few minutes to remember her password: her locker number in high school.

As soon as she logs on she realizes what a good source this could be for refurnishing her new apartment, assuming that she finds one that she can afford without the no-longer-anonymous support of RC Moneybags. Pushing that thought aside to address her more immediate concern, she begins scrolling through at least a two dozen WGD mugs before she finds one identical to the one that had met its doom this morning. It's not mint-in-box–it probably didn't even come in a box when it was brand-new–but it's in good condition. No cracks or chips. It comes from a non-smoking household. She should hope so: what great, never mind greatest, Dad smokes? No trace of nicotine sullies this mug. She clicks on Buy Now. If the owner were anywhere near here she'd go in person and pick it up. Since she can't get to Nixa, Missouri, and back in a day, she agrees to an outrageous amount for overnight shipping. Whatever it takes to get it here fast: the price of clumsiness. Or guilt.

"Probably more than I spend on groceries in a week," she grumbles to her laptop, which through sheer luck had been at the precinct the night her apartment had been leveled. Huh. What does she pay for groceries from Monday to Sunday, anyway? After running through a very short mental list, she nods at her assessment: the bill is definitely less than overnight shipping on a mug. She parts with $15 a week in the supermarket: coffee beans, milk, and peanut butter. A jar of PB usually lasts awhile; she gets it about twice a month. Make that $12.50 a week for groceries. What about takeout? Takeout isn't really groceries. Okay, then. Now what? She logs off and stretches her neck.

How about a list? that's a good use of her time. She'll make a list of everything she has to replace when she gets an apartment. A sofa. A chair. Another chair. A bed. A dresser. Towels, sheets, blankets, pillows, rugs, a hamper, a coffee maker, a microwave. Everything. Freaking everything. After a while she can't bear it. What can she do instead of this? She could watch a movie. Or read a book. All of hers may be ash, but Castle has shelves and shelves and shelves of them. Special shelves. Special see-through shelves in his special office. His office where there's special reading matter on his desk. On top of his desk. She'd never look in his desk, in any of the drawers. That would be snooping.

What she really should do is remove herself from temptation–at least this particular temptation. Ah. She picks up her phone and her best friend answers on the second ring.

"Kate?"

"Hey, Lanie, want to get some dinner? With some good wine?"

"You do know it's Saturday, right?"

"Yeah."

"For most of us, that's date night."

"Oh, right. Sorry. You have a date, huh?"

"I did, until the jerk cancelled on me five minutes ago with some half-assed excuse. I was almost dressed, too. New red silk thong that he will never, ever see now. Uh-uh, that man is gone."

"Well, I'm not interested in your red silk thong, but since you're almost dressed, why don't we have a girls' night out?"

"I got a better idea. Why don't we have a girls' night in at that palace where you're staying? You said everyone but you's away for the weekend. I know Castle has great wine that he wouldn't mind us drinking. And we can order a pizza."

"Oh." Oh, shit, she wants to say. But maybe Lanie's right. They can hang out here. It's not like they're going to be in Castle's office. She won't even think about his office. Besides, she has nothing to wear for a girls' night out. "Okay. Sounds good. But I'll go buy us some wine."

"Didn't that millionaire tell you to make yourself at home? I'm sure that includes his wine."

Maybe it does, she's sure that he'd say it does, but she feels as if she's made herself a bit too much at home in one area, and will atone–though he won't know–by getting her own wine. "See you soon, Lanie. C'mon over when you're ready."

"Almost ready now. Soon as I swap this dress for some jeans."

Much later, when all that remains of the pizza is what's smeared on the paper lining of the box, and they're well into the second bottle of Merlot, Lanie says, "You make a move yet?"

"I should, but it's so depressing. There's nothing out there in my price range that's even only marginally depressing."

"I'm not talking about apartments, Kate," her friend says, poking her foot with her own, which are on the coffee table. "I mean Castle. You succumbed to his charms yet? He must have made some kinda move on you, girl. You've been here a week. Man has only so much self-control, especially with the woman of his dreams under the same roof."

What? Lanie knows that Castle dreams about her? "Please!" she says, a little too quickly. "This is where he lives. With his m-o-t-h-e-r. And his daughter who, may I remind you, is only sixteen."

"You're staying upstairs, right?"

"Yeah. Guest room."

"And Martha and Alexis are up there, too?"

"Yup."

"So why don't you sneak downstairs to his room late some night? Little booty call. The redheads aren't gonna hear anything." Lanie pokes her again. "You're blushing. Admit it. You wanna jump that man's bones as bad as he wants to jump yours."

"I'm not blushing. It's just the wine."

"Sure."

"It's the truth." No, it's not. She peers into her empty glass. What the hell. "At least for now."

"Atta girl!" Lanie whoops.

"I'm not saying anything else. Time to change the subject."

"Fine, fine. But don't wait so long that I have to be your matron of honor instead of the maid of honor, got it?"

"Geez, Lane," she says, then gets to her feet and scoops up the plates and pizza box. "Want some ice cream?"

"You got ice cream?"

"You must be drunker than I thought. This is Castle's house. He has at least 20 kinds in the freezer, including boutique."

"Boutique?"

She can't help laughing. "Create your own flavor. Specialty company. I bet a butler delivers it personally."

That night she sleeps fitfully, despite the luxurious mattress, and when she gets up she's relieved to find that though the weather is cold, the skies are clear. She goes for a long run, first to Battery Park, then a few miles up the Hudson before she loops back to Broome Street. Even in the just-below-freezing temperature, she has worked up a sweat. When she trots into the lobby the doorman says cheerfully, "Oh, Detective? I have a package for you."

"Thank you, Mickey," she says, accepting a box that's big enough to hold a 10-gallon stewpot. She'd actually momentarily forgotten about the mug. She wants to inspect it carefully, but first she showers and changes. Hoping that she's not tempting fate, she makes a cup of coffee, and after drinking half sets it safely on the kitchen counter and opens the box. Nestled inside masses of crumpled-up newspaper is the prize, swathed in bubble wrap. She carefully unrolls as if it were a priceless antique rather than an assembly-line mug that was made nine years ago. It seems to be identical to Castle's, or to Castle's when it was still intact, but she'll make sure. She had already fished out the big chunk–the one with the bright blue letters T DA–and now she holds it next to the eBay one. Yes, the same. Except, oh, no. The background color is a little different. To the untrained, undiscerning eye, no, but she can see that the broken one is slightly faded, presumably as a result of frequent trips through the dishwasher. Dammit. It's close enough. He'll never notice, especially since he won't ever be on a compare-and-contrast mission as she is. She rewraps the broken piece in the paper towels and drops it in the wastebasket again. But before she can even contemplate making a piece of toast she's back, only this time she pulls out the liner bag, ties it up neatly, and carries it and the enormous box from Nixa, Missouri, to the trash room by the freight elevator. The box goes on the floor and the bag into the oversized garbage can that the building porter empties twice a day. Just to be safe, she tears the address label off the box. Case closed.

On her return to the kitchen, she hand washes the new-old mug, dries it, and puts it in the cabinet, not in the front where he'll see it immediately, but towards the back. Castle will find it eventually. It might even be Father's Day before he goes looking for it. After all, there are a ton of mugs in there and he's the only person who uses that one. More precisely, its predecessor, before she–. She gets the hell out of the kitchen. It's almost as dangerous as his office, if for different reasons.

Around two o'clock her stomach tells her that it requires more than the one piece of rye toast she'd had this morning, but she's damned if she's going into that kitchen and she's too tired to drag her sorry ass outside to get something. Chocolate, that would do it. Just to appease the beast in her belly. She knows where some is: in his office. He keeps a bowl there, always full of Hershey's Kisses with almonds. A dream she had last night bubbles up, unbidden. No, not last night, she had it this morning, right before she woke up. They were in the car, she doesn't know where or why. They were out in the country, in the dark. There was no one around.

"I'm crazy about these, Beckett," he said, peeling off the bright silver foil. "You have to eat it right, though. Suck the chocolate off it first. It gets all warm and melty in your mouth. You have to really suck on it, use plenty of tongue, roll your tongue around it. No biting, just sucking. And then the almond is your reward and you nibble on it. It's a little sweeter than your average nut because it's been buried in that chocolate for so long."

"Give me one of those," she demanded.

"You have to kiss me first."

"Okay."

"Don't forget what I said."

"About what?"

"About sucking. And using your tongue."

There was a good deal of sucking after that. And tongue. And nibbling. No wonder she was so hot when she woke up.

Now she's craving a Hershey Kiss–a simple yet suddenly complicated bit of candy–and she's willing to risk visiting his office to get one. The bowl isn't even on his desk. It's on a little side table. She'll run in, grab a few chocolates, and run out, and that's exactly what she does.

She had brought the _Times_ down earlier, intending to finish the puzzle that she had abandoned yesterday. Lying down on the living room sofa, she bends her knees and rests the magazine against her thighs. She's almost done. Let's see, 118 down. "Slinky swimmers." Four letters. Eels, obviously. She pops a Hershey Kiss into her mouth and sucks on it. She bets Castle is a slinky swimmer. A very slinky swimmer. She got a glimpse of bare torso the other day when he was standing up eating a sandwich and a huge glob of tuna fish and mayo landed on his tee shirt. He hadn't see her coming down the hallway, and he'd peeled off the shirt and dropped it into the washing machine. Very slinky. Very, very slinky. She wondered, still wonders, what he looks like with water running off those muscles.

The thought spurs her to have another piece of candy. "Stolen kisses," she murmurs. It's the last thing she remembers before hearing "Beckett?" She's so startled that she sits bolt upright.

"Castle? You're back?"

"It's six."

"Must have fallen asleep." She clears her throat and looks behind him. "Where's, um, where's Alexis?"

"I dropped her off at her friend Jessica's. They're going to work on their report together and she's going to spend the night."

"Oh. Nice. That's nice."

He smiles and drops down next to her. "So," he says, tilting his head at the magazine, which is about to slide off her lap. "Doing the puzzle, I see. Funny, I'd have taken you for a pen-and-ink solver."

"I am. Usually. Oh, sorry, this is yours. I was just going to finish it and then erase it in case you wanted to do it."

"No need. I did it online. On the train." He grins as he retrieves her pencil from the floor. "Good choice, though. Blackwing 602."

Oh, shit. He's going to know. He'll know. "Right," she says, feebly. "It's my favorite."

"Mine, too. When I write longhand–which I sometimes do in bed, or when I'm stuck in a story–I always use one of these. They move so smoothly across the paper, you know? I feel like it makes everything flow out of my head, too. I have a little jug of them on my desk."

The air goes still around them, which is impossible, given the amount of electricity there is between them.

" 'scuse me," he says hurriedly. "I have to take my suitcase to my room. Probably work for a while. I didn't get a lick done over the weekend."

Oh, she wishes that he hadn't said lick. She's imagining what his tongue did in her dream, how it licked–. "Right, right. Well, welcome home. I think I'll go up. Maybe finish my little nap."

"Okay," he says, watching her back as she races for the stairs.

He lets go of his suitcase the instant he walks into his office. He's trying not to think about the chocolate that's on Beckett's lip. And the Hershey Kisses foils on the coffee table. His eyes dart to the bowl, and then to his desk. There are one, two, three, four, five pencils in the jug. He always keeps half a dozen there. Six is a perfect fit. So she got one from his desk. She got a pencil that was right next to the folder that he'd labeled KB, with a little heart. He'd bought a purple folder because he knows it's her favorite color, and it was only when he'd seen the pencil on the floor that he'd recalled that he hadn't locked it in his safe before leaving on Friday. He's a snoop, and she isn't, but he's pretty sure that she might not have been able to resist that. With the tip of his index finger, he slowly opens the folder. Oh, yeah, she looked. He knows she looked because he can see the edge of the note that he'd written on the St. Regis hotel stationery, right near the top of the pile. And it's upside down.

TBC

**A/N** Thank you to all you readers, and special thanks to those who take the time to review.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

He's been working, all right, but not writing. He's been working on Beckett, on Kate: what she saw and might have seen; read and might have read; thought and might be thinking. On the way home in the train he'd decided to tease her about saying that eating a grilled cheese sandwich had been an erotic experience. She'd claimed that she'd said exotic, not erotic, but he knows otherwise. Especially now. Now that he knows that she knows that he dreams about her, that he has been for two years. Now that he knows that she knows that he is deeply, insanely, permanently in love with her.

It's ten past seven, and he can't stay in here forever. She can't stay in her room forever, either. Dinner. He'll make dinner. He'd bet that a few Hershey Kisses had constituted her lunch, so he'll make them something really good. Cooking will take his mind off what they haven't said and aren't saying but what he definitely should say, preferably this evening while his mother and daughter are away. On Wednesday, when there was no active case and he had stayed at home, he'd made a rich Bolognese sauce that's now in the freezer. Dinner can be ready by seven thirty, though he's not so sure if he will be.

While the sauce is defrosting in the microwave he tries not to think. Just let everything float for a bit, he tells himself. Fill the pot with water for the pasta, but don't think. Pictures. Just let pictures swim around in your brain, not words. He's adding salt to the water when he pictures Kate running up the stairs. Something's not right. He stops and rewinds the memory in his head. She's limping. She's running, but she's favoring one leg–no, foot. She's wearing fuzzy socks, but no shoes. He plays the memory again, this time with a soundtrack. There's something on it that he hadn't heard at the time, or hadn't noticed. He plays it again. On the fifth go-round he has it. She'd said, "Ow, ow, ow, shit," as her foot hit the third step. What had she done and why hadn't she said something about it? She never lets pain slow her down and she never lets anyone know when she hurts. This time she had. Well, she hadn't, but she hadn't been able to mask it completely, either.

The beep of the microwave prompts him to finish dinner prep. While the pasta cooks he makes a green salad, slices a pear into it, and tosses in some toasted pecans. From the bottom of the stairs he can see that her door is shut, but he's sure that she's not napping. He trots up and knocks.

"Beckett? You awake?"

No response.

"Would you like some dinner? It's all ready. And if you'll excuse my saying so, it's better than Hershey Kisses. Even the almond ones."

She's sitting on the edge of the bed. Better than Hershey Kisses with almonds? If only he knew what he'd said about those in her dream. "I'm up," she says. "Thanks. Be there in a sec." She goes to the bathroom to wash her hands and spots the chocolate smear on her face. Sheehsh. Could this evening get any worse?

When she heads for the kitchen, expecting to eat at the island, she's surprised to see that he's set a little table for two in the living room. He even put a pair of candles on it, and that almost brings her to tears. Or to her knees. In full confession mode. "Wow, Castle, very uptown."

"Have a seat," he says, placing the plates on the quilted mats. "I'll just get the salad."

That buys her a few seconds to think of something, except that she can't. Her brain has shut down.

When he sits in the chair opposite her, their knees are about six inches apart. "Please," he says. "Dig in. I'm starving. Amtrak lunch barely counts as a meal."

She takes a forkful of sauce-laden fusilli, which tastes even better than it smells. "Mmm, delicious. Thank you."

"You're welcome." They eat in silence for a few minutes, until he puts his fork on his plate. "So, Detective," he says, looking straight at her. "I think a grilling is in order."

She's going to choke to death in front of him. This is mortifying. Somehow he knows what she's done, that she snooped. That damn pencil gave her away. "Grilling?" She's as panicky as dozens of suspects she's faced down across a table, but this table is turned. At this table Castle is the questioner and she's worse than a suspect: she's the perp. He's the griller and she, the grillee.

"About the grilled cheese sandwich. You can't possibly think I'd believe that you said it was exotic. There's nothing exotic about it. Switzerland is a beautiful place, Gruyères is a beautiful town, and the cheese it produces is fantastic. But exotic? No. And cheddar wouldn't be exotic even on the moon. No, you called the ingestion of said sandwich an erotic experience. There's a world of difference between and R and an X, as any moviegoer could tell you. Yes, you said it was an erotic experience."

"Uh." Uh, that's all she's got? He has her completely rattled.

"Don't deny it or I'll have to serve you truth serum for dessert."

She's so relieved that he's not asking her about what she'd done in his office that she laughs out loud. "I'll confess to it, but only because I want that Häagen-Dazs chocolate peanut butter ice cream that I know is waiting in the freezer, and it's dying to get out."

"I have to say, Beckett, you're the only person I know who anthropomorphizes ice cream."

"Yeah, and you're the only person I know who'd say something like that."

"Well, you just said the ice cream is dying to get out of the freezer, as if it were a person."

"Should have said it's dying to get eaten."

It's his turn to laugh, a full-throated, full-bodied guffaw. Once he recovers he says, "That sounds like an erotic experience, too."

"Castle!"

"What? You're the one who's talking dirty."

"I'm going to finish my salad now so that I'll be allowed to have dessert." Thank you, God, she thinks, spearing a piece of pear. Thank you for sparing me this confrontation until I can figure out how I can adequately apologize for reading his papers, even if they are about me. It's only when she has polished off the salad and is lifting her wine glass that she realizes that he has been strangely silent. His knife and fork are nestled neatly in the middle his plate, and he's looking at her intently. Uh oh. This is it. She had thanked God prematurely. Her wine glass is halfway between her lips and the table and she can't decide what to do.

"I have to ask you about something else. Something that you're not talking about."

If she's going to die of embarrassment, it might as well be with a mouthful of a sublime Cabernet-Shiraz that she'd never even heard of until Castle brought some home a few nights ago. His home, not her home. This isn't her home. She doesn't have a home. She swallows and makes herself look at him, even if it's sideways rather than directly.

"Your foot," he says.

"My foot?"

"Your foot. Appendage. Pedal extremity. Holder of five toes. What happened to it? You're limping. When you went up the stairs you said ouch, repeatedly. Actually, ow. You said ow several times, and you never say ow. You must be in pain that would have the average person, which you most definitely are not, begging for morphine."

She had worked so hard to expunge the broken mug incident from her mind that she'd almost forgotten how badly she had cut her foot. She'd been an idiot to run so far on it, but it had only begun throbbing again when she'd gotten back. She has to tell him. Horrible as it is, she has to.

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

"That your foot hurts?"

"No. Yes, I mean no. I mean I'm sorry because i broke something."

"Your foot, what, a metatarsal? I'm sorry, too. Did you go to the ER?"

His eyes are so full of concern that she almost melts. "No, no. I cut my foot. On something of yours that I broke. I'm so sorry, Castle. I know how much it means to you. I wasn't going to tell you, but I got a replacement and I was hoping that you wouldn't notice that it wasn't the original, you know? Because they're almost completely identical except it's not the one Alexas gave you. It's one that I got on eBay. I apologize."

"For what? I'm a little lost–wait, did you break my WORLD'S GREATEST DAD mug?"

Slice open her other foot. Her hands, her heart. This is agony. "Yes. I dropped it. I'd have mended it but it was in about a hundred pieces. I know it's irreplaceable and–"

"Are you kidding me?"

"That I broke the mug that your daughter gave you when she was in second grade? I wish I were."

"I meant were you kidding about it being irreplaceable. I've replaced it twice. You broke my third one. I have two more back-ups in my storage room in the basement. You may have noticed that it's not exactly high-quality porcelain, or bone china."

She smiles, not just because she's relieved, but because he's trying so hard to make sure that she doesn't feel bad. "Still sorry, Castle. At least you have another back-up now."

"You must have done a number on your foot. Did you step on the mug?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. Not fine if you say ow, Beckett. Three times. I'm going to take a look at it."

"Have you been going to med school at night?"

"No, but I'm a concerned citizen. A taxpayer. A concerned taxpayer who wants to make sure that New York's Finest is always in fine health. Let me check it."

"No."

"Fine. Then I'm making a citizen's arrest."

He bends to one side, partly under the table, and grabs her right ankle. His hand is so soft. Not his grip, which is powerful, but his skin. It's like satin. Is all of his skin like that? His back? His chest? His–.

He rolls her sock off, then peels back the tape and the gauze and examines her sole. "Looks okay. Deep, but okay. More than okay."

"I told you it was fine."

"It's beautiful."

"See? I'm on the mend. Told you."

"I'm talking about your foot, not your injury. Your foot is beautiful." He runs his fingers down her Achilles tendon and cups her heel in his hand. "Beautiful. Just like the rest of you."

"Oh."

His voice dips. It's gentle. Tender. "You can't be surprised that I think you're beautiful, can you?" His thumb massages her arch. "You know I do."

TBC

**A/N** I will be away from very early Wednesday until very late Sunday with not a minute to write, so I thought that I'd post a chapter now, even if it's a little shorter than usual. Thank you all for reading. I'll be back next week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

Yes, she does know that he thinks she's beautiful. She has read those notes. But she can't admit it. It's strange, though: what's worse than admitting that she's a snoop is admitting that she's beautiful. No, not admitting to it, agreeing to it. Except that she doesn't agree that she's beautiful–pretty, yes, but not beautiful–and it feels as if she's saying, yes, I am beautiful, even though what she's really saying is yes, Castle, I know that you think I'm beautiful. Even if I'm not. It's very hard to straighten out her thoughts, to keep her train of thought on the track–oh, God, she can't even get her metaphor right–when she's so aware of his hand cradling her heel. Aware of the warmth of it. Aware of his finger running down her Achilles tendon again and sending an erotic, not exotic, charge right up her leg to her cr–. No, don't go there. Not right now.

She can't help it, she twitches. She twitches so forcefully that her foot is propelled upward from Castle's palm, but his reflexes are so quick that he manages to grab her calf. His thumb is pressing hard against her gastrocnemius muscle, which suddenly and most unaccountably has becomes an erogenous zone. That soft spot behind the knee, sure, but not several inches down, the hard muscle in the lower leg of a dedicated runner. It's unbelievable. That's never happened before. The man has a magic touch.

"Beckett?" he says. She tries not to look at him, but she does, and finds that his eyes are full of surprise. "Beckett?" he says again, and presses his thumb against her calf muscle. Her eyes slam shut and she moans, unrestrained.

"Did I just stumble on something that you like as much as my grilled cheese sandwich?" He presses his thumb down a third time, but now he adds a circular motion, a miniature massage that elicits another deeper, more musical moan from her. A long, long, melodious moan. She can hear it, but she can't control it. If this room were bugged, and she has a fuzzy recollection of wondering if it were, an eavesdropper would be sure that someone was having sex in here. They aren't, but they are. If this is what happens when he touches her calf muscle, what would it be like if it were, say, her nipple. Or her–. And here's the pad of his thumb once more; she slides partway off the chair.

"Stop," she says. She wants to say, "Keep going," but her last filaments of self-control save her. "Stop," she repeats, swatting feebly at his hand before pushing herself back into an upright position. Upright in every sense.

"You want me to stop?" He sounds as though he doesn't believe her, and he shouldn't.

"Yes. It um, that tickled. It tickled." Her palms are sweating, and she's not sure if she can hang on to the sides of the chair if he tries that again.

"You weren't laughing, Beckett."

"I was giggling."

"Really? In that case, I'm going to dedicate my life to making you giggle."

She's aware that she's blushing; her cheeks are hot, and so are other parts of her that fortunately are covered by clothing. Bending over to look under the table, she picks up her sock and makes slow work of putting it back on. "Foot's cold," she mumbles.

"It is, huh?" he asks seriously."You probably don't want any ice cream after all."

"I'm not putting it on my foot."

"Funny you should mention." He raises one eyebrow just slightly, but the expression is not lost on her, even in her current state of befuddlement. "When I put my foot in my mouth, which I have been known to do on numerous occasions, I sometimes think afterwards that it would have been a lot better coated in rocky road ice cream."

"Chocolate peanut butter."

"That's for your foot, not mine."

Oh, it looks like she has a good way out of this conversation. Not out, but diverted. Detoured. "You saying I put my foot in my mouth, Castle?"

"If the shoe–or in this case, sock–fits."

Oh, hell, so much for the detour. They're speeding right down the eight-lane interstate with an enormous refrigerated truck loaded with ice cream headed straight for her. Time to suck it up, she thinks, even if it gives her butterflies the size of condors. She scrunches up her face. If Castle could read her mind he'd be appalled by the mixed metaphors, terrible analogies, and bad similes that are chasing each other around in there. He'll be more appalled when she confesses to snoopiness, although he has more than hinted that he has figured that out.

"Sorry. I'm really sorry," she blurts. "It was an accident."

"I'm assuming that you're not talking about breaking the mug, since we already covered that." His face is a blank. How can he do that? He never does that, even in poker.

"No." Her hand is, of its own accord, clutching at her throat. Good. Maybe it will strangle her and she won't have to finish this. No. No chance; she can't grip that hard. Castle is silent. "It was because I needed a pencil for the puzzle. You probably remember I said that. And then I couldn't find one anywhere so I thought well he must have one in his office and I saw those Blackwings that I love too and I reached for one but I was a klutz and tipped over the little cup, jug, whatever, and one of the pencils landed smack bang in the middle of that folder and I saw my initials on it. I mean I saw KB which I thought was Kyra Blaine, you know, because why would you have a folder with my initials?" She swallows and adds as off-handedly as possible, which is not very, "Especially with a heart, right? That's what I thought."

He's still wearing a blank expression. It would be so much better if he were ticked off or smirking or anything but this. It's as if someone shot his face full of Novacain. And then he speaks, but without inflection. "So, you noticed the heart?"

That's his question? Of all the things he could ask or comment on, that's it?

"Yeah. Yes, I did. Yes. And I thought hey, Castle said he was over Kyra. We went to her wedding and everything and that was that, but I wondered why does he have a big file on her? And then I got mad because I thought it might have been things from when she was a suspect which you shouldn't have even though she was cleared in that case but still they should have stayed in the precinct. Evidence, papers, stuff." She's out of breath and probably out of time. "Soooo." Soooo, geez, she's pathetic. "So, I looked a little closer and I could see it was kind of an old folder, or anyway one you'd had for a while, since it had a coffee stain and one of the corners was bent." Oh, make him pick up the thread, this is excruciating. She stops and waits.

"You looked a little closer?" he repeats. It amazes her that the man who can't sit still at her desk or in the car for five minutes has not moved a fraction of an inch in however long they've been at this. Feels like an hour, at least. Two hours. But this question has the tiniest hint of a challenge. She knows him well now, and she can hear it.

"Yes. I'm a detective. I'm supposed to notice things, especially when they're out in the open." Uh-oh. Not a good turn of phrase. She shouldn't have said that, for a multitude of reasons. And of course he latches onto it. Dashes right through the opening that she gave him.

"Out in the open."

"Sure. As opposed to, say, in a drawer. If it had been in a drawer I'd never have seen it."

"Because you wouldn't have opened a drawer."

"Of course not. It's not like I'd gotten a search warrant, for God's sake."

"But you did open it. The folder."

There's no denying it. "Well, yes, but–"

He interrupts her. "Even though you thought it was old. But if it were old, why would it have new things in it? Things from the case involving Kyra, which was only two and a half months ago."

She can do this. She can stay professionally cool, even though this is personal. "You tell me." Oh, God, no. Don't. "Maybe it was love letters from ages ago, you kept them, couldn't make yourself throw them away, and so this was a good place to put the evidence that you needed to hide."

"But I wasn't hiding anything."

Oh, but he was. He was hiding something huge. Several huge things. Like setting up accounts for Montgomery and the boys and her that would give them a great deal of money. That's huge. And the way he feels about her? That's huger. Less of a shock, okay, but huge. Huger. Let him keep talking. She's better at waiting than he is. Eventually he'll have to say something, and eventually he does.

"You opened it." He's looking at her so evenly that she's about to break into a sweat again. "You know why I'm sure of it?"

Keep on going, Castle, she thinks. It will give her more time to figure out what to say. How to explain.

"I'm sure of it because even though I am not a detective, as you like to remind me, I am scrupulously tidy. Neat. Which you may have noticed."

"Like your color-coded closet? Which I saw because you gave me a hoody from there to wear. Blue shirts ranging from dark to light, left to right, stripes with stripes, yadda, yadda. Yes, you are definitely scrupulously, scrupulously tidy." Repeating "scrupulously" is oddly comforting.

"I'm also a naturally curious person."

Under other circumstances she'd have corrected him and said "nosy." She does not.

"A quality which has helped make me a great deal of money as a writer."

Her mind flashes back on the figures that she'd seen on some of the paperwork in the folder. A great deal of money is an understatement.

"As a successful mystery novelist, and as someone who has spent the better part of two years working with you at the Twelfth, I think I may say, without boasting, that deductive reasoning is one of my strengths."

He's looking really, really hard at her now, which is making her both uncomfortable and turned on.

"You're not saying anything, Beckett. I hope that doesn't mean that you're disagreeing with me."

"No, no. I'm not disagreeing." Her foot begins to itch. Isn't that a sign of wanderlust, of wanting to travel? She'd pay a hell of a lot–all the money that Castle is giving her for the Nikki Heat books–to travel right out of this loft right this second.

"When I went into my office earlier this evening, I observed that a pencil was missing from my desk. I knew it because I always keep half a dozen there, and the jug had only five. From that I inferred, correctly, that you had borrowed the sixth. Which is fine. My pencils are your pencils. But then I noticed, as you had, that I'd left a file folder marked KB on my desk. Now, you are many things, Beckett, but you're not a snoop."

_Yes I am yes I am yes I am yes I am_

"I'm the one in this relationship–"

_He called it a relationship_

"who's a snoop. But you're also human, and it would be only human nature for you to peek inside a file that has your initials on it. And a heart."

Suddenly, he bursts out laughing. And then he smiles at her and he looks so gorgeous and forgiving and she doesn't know that she can stand this any longer without kissing him.

"I just thought of _The African Queen_. On my top five movie list. When Humphrey Bogart says to Katharine Hepburn about his having too much to drink once in a while, 'It's only human nature.' And then she says, 'Nature, Mister Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.' Do you remember that? One of the greatest lines ever. I've never read the book, so I don't know if it was C.S. Forester who came up with it, or one of the screenwriters. My money's on John Huston. I doubt that C.S. Forester was that funny."

Then, at last, he moves. He slides his right hand across the top of the table, and covers her left with it. "I know you looked in there, Kate, because one of the pieces of paper, almost at the top of the pile, was upside down, and I never file anything upside down. You know what I did? I turned it over. I turned it over and read the note that I wrote to myself when I was in California last month. It was the longest I'd ever gone without seeing you since last summer." He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and reopens his eyes. "You can't imagine how much I missed you. Everything about you. I was playing games in my head, like, what did she wear to work last Tuesday? How late can I text her without annoying her? How long does it usually take before she gets up for another coffee? Actually I knew the answer to that one because I timed you once. For a whole week. The average period between your finishing the coffee I bring you in the morning and your getting a new one in the break room is forty-two minutes, nine seconds. I used the stopwatch on my phone."

He rolls his hand around to turn hers over just enough so that he can lace his fingers through hers. "You read it, didn't you? All of it?"

Her head dips so low that the tip of her chin hits the space between her collarbones. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

She's aware of the air moving before she sees his face, which has appeared sideways to hers.

"You shouldn't be sorry," he says. His breath, warm against her cheek, smells of tomatoes and basil and rosemary and butter. "I'm not sorry. I was embarrassed at first, but not anymore. I'm glad that you read it. Unless you're horrified and want to run out of here, but I think if you were you'd have gone already. You'd have left before I got back from Philadelphia."

"I'm not sorry." She can't decide if she said that intentionally or accidentally. Either way, she's not sorry now. She raises her head. "I do, too." That was deliberate. She wanted to say it and she did. "I do, too."

"You do, too, what?" His voice is as soft as his breath was a moment ago.

"Dream about you."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you for all the lovely reviews while I was gone. I finished my project, I'm back, and finally have more free time to write.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

He'd ask her to repeat it, but there's nothing wrong with his hearing and he knows that she said it: "I do, too. Dream about you." He hadn't had to trick her into saying it. Hadn't had to cajole, tease, plead, or threaten her. Hadn't had to pour on the charm. She'd had only one glass of wine, so she wasn't and isn't drunk. She dreams about him. He'll ask her about those dreams, but first he has to let her admission seep in, let his mind and his body and his soul welcome that news. For now, he'll stay right here, and exult in being able to look at her forever. Because this must be forever.

She's stunned, not so much because she made a huge admission to Castle, but because he hasn't said a word. She just told him that she dreams about him and he's sitting still across the table from her, though he's no longer holding her hand. His left is lying flat next to his plate, and his right is spread wide on his face from the side of his nose to the back of his ear, but she's sure that he's not aware of it. At least a minute has passed, probably two, but there's been not a peep from him. Not a sigh or yelp. Nothing. She knows that he heard what she said, because that's when the hand that had been entwined with hers flew onto his cheek, where it has been ever since. She can't bear the silence–is silence his new default position? really?–so she puts an end to it.

"Castle? Don't you have any questions? You always have questions."

That makes him blink rapidly several times, and his hand slides down to the table. "Questions? No. I guess not. But, oh. Yes, of course I have questions, a million." Like, he thinks, _Will you move in here today and not go look for an apartment?_ Or, better yet, _Will you marry me?_ But he won't ask either of those, not yet. Instead he says, "When was the first time you dreamed about me? No, wait, please don't answer that. What I want to know is, when was the last time you dreamed about me? And by last I hope it isn't the last ever. I mean what was the most recent? When did you most recently dream about me?"

He would have to ask that, about something still so fresh in her mind that she feels warm. Hot, actually, not warm. Way beyond warm. If they're headed where they appear to be headed, he can't waffle. So she doesn't. "Last night."

"Oooh, last night?"

She had never believed the expression that someone's "eyes danced," until now. His are waltzing. It's amazing. "Yeah," she says. "Last night."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What was it about?"

"The dream?"

"Yes, the dream."

"We were on a stakeout."

"Geez, Beckett, you're torturing me. Am I going to have to drag this out of you one sentence at a time? We were on a stakeout. Okay. So what happened? Did we have our clothes on?"

"Of course we did. This wasn't parking after the junior prom."

"Whoa, did you have sex in the car after your junior prom? Who was your date? I'll kill him."

"I repeat. You and I were on a stakeout. Fully clothed. Heavily clothed, since it was winter. Hats, gloves, scarves, boots, everything."

He gives her a look. Go on, it says. Go on, tell me.

You were talking about food, which is not uncommon in those circumstances."

"I'll bite." He puts his hand up, palm out. "Not literally. What kind of food?"

"Not food, exactly. You were discussing candy."

"Candy in general, or specifically?"

"Specifically, Hershey Kisses with almonds."

"Hershey Kisses are definitely food. Especially with almonds."

She almost asks if he's going to keep interrupting her, but doesn't because it gives her more time to get to the finish. "Okay, food. High-protein."

"Right. And magnesium, Beckett. Don't forget that. And vitamin E, too."

"Uh huh. I'm glad you checked the nutrition label. A health food for the ages. Anyway, after you unwrapped the Hershey Kiss–"

"With an almond."

"With an almond. You had a bag of them. When you unwrapped the first piece you said you loved them, but that you had to eat them right. That it's important to do that."

"That's true. You do. I don't know what I said in your dream, but I can't wait to hear. I've often suspected that you can read my mind. Don't deny it."

She can't draw this out any longer. She's going to have to tell him. Maybe she could leave out some of the details–or maybe not. "You said that first of all you have to, hmm, let's see if I can remember. You have to suck the chocolate off. So it gets, I think you said, it gets melty in your mouth."

His eyes aren't waltzing anymore, they're doing some kind of irresistible high-voltage tango. Eye sex. Undeniably eye sex. It's impossible to look at him and impossible not to. "You said that you have to really suck on it. Roll your tongue around it." He accused her of torturing him? That's nothing compared to what he's doing to her with his eyes. "Nobitingjustsucking."

"What?" he asks.

"Suckingbutnotbitingjustsucking."

"I think the key word buried in there is sucking."

"Yes," she says weakly. "That's it."

"And did I?"

It's her turn to say, "Did you what?"

"Suck. Not bite."

"On the candy? Oh, yes. Sure. You did."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"You. Did you bite or suck? And I'm not talking about the candy because I'm positive that we're no longer discussing Hershey Kisses."

"With almonds."

"With almonds. I'm positive that we're discussing what we did to each other. In the car. On the stakeout." The tip of his tongue emerges from the corner of his mouth, as if he were licking chocolate from his lower lip. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes."

With that he rises so abruptly from his chair that it topples backwards. He leans across the small table, takes her face in his hands, and says, "One-second warning. I'm going to kiss you."

And when he does, she takes less than a second to respond. She half expects him to taste of chocolate. Instead, he tastes of wine and pasta sauce and pear and pecan and she'd probably assume that she does, too, if she weren't way too busy and way too giddy to assume anything. It's as if his kiss can travel, is traveling, through her entire body, through her mouth and into her bloodstream, into her neural network, into her synapses and muscles and tendons and bones, into every vital organ. When he finally stops, and so does she, both of them are all but breathless. She looks at her hands and and is surprised that lightning bolts aren't shooting out of her fingertips, like in some cartoon. Except this is no cartoon: this is for real. He's real. She's real. They're real.

"Wow," he gasps.

"Hmmm" is all she can manage.

"Can we do that again?"

"Mmmm," she hums, and takes his mouth before he can take hers. When this kiss ends she feels as if the electrical current in her body could turn on every light in the city. "Oh, my God," she says against his neck. "That should be illegal, what you did."

"Kind of what I was going to say to you," he says into her hair. "Can I put you under house arrest?"

"I'm already in your house."

"I know. Then stay here."

Stay here. It reminds her, sharply and uncomfortably, that she needs to talk to Castle before this goes any farther, before she ends up in his bed without any discussion of what she found in his office inside a plain purple folder that is anything but plain.

"Wait," she says, pulling back and sitting up straight again. "Wait."

"Wait?" He sounds as confused as he looks.

"We have to talk about something."

"Now? Right now?"

"Yes, right now." He looks like a little boy whose puppy has just been stolen, and she feels guilty. "While we have ice cream," she adds. "Ice cream helps everything."

"Something needs help?"

"Someone."

"Who?"

"Me. I need help." She picks up the napkin that she had dropped on the tabletop and folds it neatly into a rectangle. "I need help telling you what I read in the folder."

"I told you. I don't care that you read it. I'm glad you did."

"Well, um, see, the note you wrote at the hotel? That wasn't the only thing I looked at. I looked at a lot of stuff. I really am a snoop. Even though that wasn't my intention, I snooped. I did."

"I don't mind. I don't." He grabs her hand and kisses it. "Besides, it levels the playing field a little bit. I'm not the only snoop in the game, even if I snoop a lot more than you do. So, end of discussion."

"Not end of discussion," she says, shaking her head and reclaiming her hand. "I'm getting the ice cream."

He looks down for a moment, and then back up at her. "Okay. I'll make the coffee."

They work quietly in the kitchen. She'd be happy to return to the table, to keep some distance between them, but he marches ahead of her with a tray of mugs and bowls, and puts it on the coffee table. He stands next to the sofa until she sits down, and passes her her coffee.

Where should she begin? The books. The money from the books is easier to talk about than the real estate issue. "For one thing," she says, slightly tentatively, "I looked at that letter. The one from the trust guy at the bank. It's incredibly generous of you, Castle, incredibly, but I don't need that money from the books. It's yours. I have nothing to do with it."

"Are you kidding? You have everything to do with it. Have you forgotten that I was totally burned out when we met two years ago? I couldn't write a thing. And now look. You gave me Nikki."

"No, you gave me Nikki. Gave all your readers Nikki. It's your imagination. It's your story."

"Which I couldn't possibly write without you. Or, though to a much lesser extent, without Ryan and Espo and Montgomery. You think I shouldn't share the profits with them? Do you want to deny them?"

"No, of course not. But that's different."

"How?"/

"Because. It just is."

"That's an insufficient answer, Detective," he says quickly. "I can't accept such an answer from the woman who just kissed me in such an indescribably thrilling way that I have to completely reassess the art of kissing."

Is that his foot brushing up against hers? Is he playing footsie with her? She's going to ignore it. She can. Of course she can. And while she's at it, she'll ignore what he said about her kissing him. But it's hard to argue logically about royalties from the Nikki Heat books while she's recalling the mind-altering things his tongue did in her mouth.

"I don't know. I guess I'm embarrassed. I saw the bank statement, too. It's so much money. Way too much money."

"You do know it was an instant best-seller? Number one for twenty-three weeks? Paperback shipped about a trillion copies in the first run alone. The second book–"

"But."

"No buts. You can give the money to charity if you want, but you're still getting it."

Why does he have to look so handsome and sexy and sincere and decisive? Why can't he have a really bad haircut and be a nitwit and a terrible kisser? Why aren't his eyes set too close together, and why can't they be some blah color? "Okay. Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Are we done discussing this now so we can do better things?"

"No." Shiit, this is so hard. "There's something else." She'd take a bite of ice cream but her stomach wouldn't welcome it. "The landlord."

"I don't have a landlord."

"The landlord you want to bribe or have give me a fake lease so that I can afford an apartment in Manhattan that's more than four hundred square feet and doesn't have hot and cold running roaches."

"Ah." His eyes close briefly. "You saw that."

"I did."

"And it bothered you."

"Damn straight it did, Castle. I wanted to kill you at first. But when I calmed down I realized that you were being kind. Your intentions were good, if misguided. But there is no way I'm letting you pay my rent."

"Part of your rent."

"Any of my rent."

"Well, if you looked at the most recent sales figures from my publisher you'd see that you can now afford a roach-free apartment with a doorman, even. You don't need me or my money. You've got Nikki Heat money."

But I do need you, she thinks. I do need you. She pauses to twirl her spoon in the slightly melted Häagen-Dazs chocolate peanut butter ice cream, which of course brings to mind slightly melted Hershey Kisses (with almonds), which is exactly what she doesn't need. Not at this moment. "You know what I need?" she says softly. "A good night's sleep. I'm worn out."

Castle bumps his shoulder lightly against hers, lifts the bowl from her hand, and puts it back on the tray. "Good idea. Do I get a goodnight kiss?"

"I think you already got one."

"Okay. But it's not going to be the last one ever, is it?"

"No."

"You promise?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He smiles. "Good night, Kate."

Good night," she responds, as she gets up and starts towards her room. When she's on the fourth step she turns back. He's watching her. "Until tomorrow," she says, and walks up the rest of the stairs.

"Until tomorrow," he calls to her.

She's giving him hope. She's hopeful.

After stripping off her clothes in the bathroom, she pulls on a long-sleeved jersey, and brushes her teeth. She really is exhausted, but her brain is buzzing. Lying on her back in bed, with the duvet pulled up to her chin, she replays part of the conversation that she and Lanie had had yesterday. "Why don't you sneak downstairs to his room late some night?" her friend had said. "Admit it. You wanna jump that man's bones as bad as he wants to jump yours."

Five minutes later she proclaims to the ceiling, "You're right." Maybe she's crazy, but she rolls out of bed and tiptoes down the stairs, across the living room, and through his office. Then, trembling, she waits until she summons the nerve to knock on the bedroom door.

"Castle? Are you awake?"

TBC

**A/N** It took me longer than I expected to post this from a tiny island off the coast of Maine, with very spotty internet. Enormous thanks again, everyone, especially to the guest reviewers to whom I can't reply.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

**A/N** This chapter has an M-rated section that begins with "Couldn't be more sure." If you want to skip that part, scroll ahead to: They're spent, but after a few minutes he croaks, "How the hell did you do that?"

It took everything she had to knock on his door and ask if he's awake, but there has been no response. She shifts from one bare foot to the other, and regrets not having put on any slippers, or at least socks. Cold feet, she thinks. I'm getting cold feet, literally and figuratively. Platitudes chase each other inside her head. "Throw caution to the winds." "In for a penny, in for a pound." "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

Gah. She knocks again, but this time doesn't speak. When she's counted to a hundred and he still hasn't opened the door or said something from the other side of it, she peaks underneath. She can see light, so he must be up. He couldn't have fallen asleep with a light on, could he? He hadn't seemed at all tired when she'd gone upstairs, and that wasn't long ago. After counting to a hundred again she agonizes for a while and decides to make a huge leap: she turns the knob and crosses the threshold, taking the single step on what she suspects could be the beginning of a lifelong journey.

Because she's concentrating on being as quiet as possible, she doesn't see him until she has carefully closed the door behind her. When she turns around she finds him standing in the doorway between the bedroom and bath, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. His hair is wet and so is he. She is briefly transfixed by three shimmering drops of water that are making their way down from his clavicle, bisecting his chest, and trickling towards his belly button, which is visible just above the edge of his towel. When they disappear from view, she looks up.

"Beckett?" It's two baritonal syllables of utter astonishment.

The only thing that's more astonished is the expression in his eyes, which look bluer than usual because of the blue towel–which she now notices is not very big, or maybe it is but there's just so much of him. He's so big. How had she not noticed this before? He could probably register his calf muscles as lethal weapons. And his biceps, holy mother. He could probably balance her on one of them. There's a thought that should perhaps go unvoiced for the moment. She's not sure that she has a voice at the moment anyway. She tries it out. "Sorry." Not strong enough. "I'm sorry. I knocked a couple of times but you didn't answer but the light seemed to be on and I thought it would be okay if I came in and, you know, checked. On you. Checked on you."

"I was in the shower," he says needlessly, gesturing over his shoulder.

"Right. I see. I mean, I figured since you're"–her hand flutters to her head–"wet."

"It's noisy. The shower. Has a lot of jets. I had it on full force."

"Right."

"So I didn't hear you."

"Right."

They're rooted in place, staring at each other.

"It didn't work."

She's confused. The shower didn't work? Did he take a bath? Then why did he say he had the shower on full force? "It didn't?"

"No."

"Well, you look very, er, clean. So it must have worked." Maybe she should look at his feet, which are far less distracting than other parts of him. Unless she can't prevent her eyes from wandering upwards a few inches to those calves, and apparently she can't. She's working very hard not to speculate about his thighs.

"I took a cold shower."

That gets her attention, and she redirects her gaze to his face. "You did?"

"It worked fine until you appeared in your nightie. Nightshirt. Jersey. Top. With no–. With your bare legs, which by the way, have you ever measured? You're five nine, right? But that can't be right because your legs are are least five feet long."

"They are?"

"Maybe longer."

"Oh. Listen, I was thinking about what I said before. About being tired. Worn out is what I think I said." This is tough. Can't he get the drift and help her out? Help them both out? She hasn't felt this awkward since eighth grade when Lucas McGuire caught her skinny dipping in the pond behind the cabin.

"Right."

Dear God, that's what she'd said to him about the shower. This is hopeless. They're hopeless. Suck it up, Kate, she tells herself. "When I got into bed I discovered that I wasn't tired, after all." She pauses. He's still in the same spot, like some glistening god, but a god who has mysteriously lost the art of conversation. "And then I was thinking that Martha and Alexas are away." Another pause, but the god remains statue-like. "So I decided to come down here and give you the goodnight kiss you asked me for."

He moves a tiny bit, not quite a half step, but something. "You said you already did."

"I did. But you know what? I want more. A whole lot more." Here goes. "Do you?"

"Yes, but–but are you sure?"

"Couldn't be more sure. Drop the towel." When he reaches her–that god can move!–he undoes his towel with one hand, and with the other peels her jersey over her head and lets it fall onto the floor. "I see what you mean about the cold shower not working," she says, any filter that might have been in place now gone. She'd thought he was big before? Oh, this is going to be something. Before another coherent or incoherent thought can make its way through her mind, he picks her up and she wraps her legs around him, her feet locked near the base of his spine.

"Oh, you're definitely sure, Kate," he whispers into her ear as he walks them both to his bed. "I'm not the only one who's wet."

"That's pretty dirty talk for a clean guy," she says, and they're both laughing when he drops her gently onto her back on the mattress. She scrambles up so that her feet aren't dangling off the end of the bed, and by the time she's there he's already nudging her legs apart. He's tickling her behind her knee–how did he know that it's one of her Top Spots?–and at the same time licking his way up her thigh. Even his tongue is big, it feels big against her skin, flat and soft and warm but also sizzling. It sends her into some kind of frenzy that escalates into something previously unknown when his tongue stops licking and begins to probe.

"Yum," he hums against her, the vibration making her back arch. "You're not just gorgeous, you're delicious."

"Up here," she manages to say, releasing her hold on the sheet to brush her hand across her breast.

Very briefly, he lifts his head. "You want me up there?"

"And down. Both, both."

Which is why his tongue is now doing something indescribable to her left nipple and two of his fingers are doing the probing. They've reached her G-spot, and they know–Castle knows–exactly what to do. Some brilliant bit of dexterity, with thought behind it, that she has never experienced. When he executes it, this combination of pressure and flickering movement, she comes faster and more wildly than she ever has.

"Wow," he says, after narrowly escaping a black eye when her knee glanced off his cheekbone. "That was–I don't know what, exactly. Stupendous. My writer's wits have deserted me."

"How the hell did you do that?" she asks, still short of breath.

"Inspired. You inspired me. I didn't know you'd be my muse in bed, too."

"You never did that before?"

"Not that way. Never."

"Hang on."

"Gladly."

She feels the sweat evaporate from between her breasts, and her heartbeat return to normal. She's sure that he doesn't expect her quick move, as she flips him onto his back and then straddles him. "You have magical fingers, but I want more. I want this." She rises up a few inches and then, leaning forward, strokes him lightly before sinking down on him until he's fully buried. "Oh, my God, you're so big."

"Am I–"

"No, no, no. It's fantastic." She rocks forward, and her hair brushes across his shoulder. "I could do this with you forever."

It's not forever, but it's as long as either one of them can remember. They are madly energetic and vocal and seemingly perfectly matched. With every twitch and every contraction, every push and every pull, they urge each other on. He drives into her as hard as he dares, but she latches on to him and says, "harder." They both want release, and they both want to hold it off as long as possible. Finally, she explodes, and three thrusts later, he follows.

They're spent, but after a few minutes he croaks, "How the hell did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing with, you know."

"Oh, that? Spur of the moment. I guess you're my muse, too."

She wakes up much later, and when she rolls over he wakes, too. "Hi," he says.

"Hi." She looks at him and smiles. "I don't usually do that."

"What, have sex on a first date?"

"Was this a date?"

"Good question."

"I don't usually make noise like that. So much. That loud. Good thing we're the only ones here, huh?"

"I loved the noise. It's music to me. You were Mozart. You were Alicia Keys."

She giggles. "More like a heavy metal band."

He cups her shoulder with his hand and draws her into his side. "Don't worry about it."

"I have to worry about it. This isn't just for tonight, is it? I mean, I'm not a one-night–"

"Shhhhh. Shhhhhh. Don't say it. Don't think it. You already know you're it for me. You must know that, especially after the last couple of hours. Besides, you read it in that file I so stupidly and brilliantly left out on my desk before I went to Philadelphia." He inhales against her hair. "I don't want you to worry about making noise in bed. I don't want you to be afraid to sneak down here again tomorrow night and the next night and the next night. But I have an idea."

"It better not involve going to my apartment. I don't have one."

"No, my idea is that in the morning I'm calling an acoustical engineer and getting this room sound proofed." After he's made that cheerful announcement, they talk softly about important things and frivolous ones; things they used to do and things they'd like to try; things that matter to one or to the other but now, on their new shared yet untested ground, matter to them both. At some point he drifts off to sleep in mid-sentence.

She, on the other hand, is wide awake, brain buzzing. She's curled against him, watching his chest rise and fall as he breathes, watching his eyes to see if they move beneath the lids. When they do, she wonders what he's dreaming. Is it about her? Them? The work them, or the now personal them, or some combination?

Castle is the optimist, the one who believes that everything, or almost everything, will work out. She lives in a gray world where nothing is black or white or certain; everything is shadowy and shaky and unknowable. He's had two bad marriages; she hasn't even risked living with someone. And yet after only a week under his roof and only a few hours in his bed, she's ready to bathe herself in his confident hopefulness. Ready to think that they can be together, will be together, that they will thrive. She's still in his arms, a position she has never before been in for more than a few minutes. In the past, with other men, she has always felt trapped, wanted to withdraw, to get away, but this seems natural. Inevitable. Wonderful.

She tilts her head slightly and continues to look at him, at the slight bump in his nose, at the strong chin. The darkness in the room is not complete, and she takes inventory. All the pillows are on the floor, though she has no memory of how they got there. She smiles with the realization that she could make an informed guess, but it doesn't matter. The duvet is in a tangle and has slid most of the way off the bed. Although it's very cold out, it's officially spring. Maybe the season of rebirth has affected her mood, too. A few lines of an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem she read years ago, a favorite of her mother's, flood her memory.

Beautiful Dove, come back to us in April…  
Come back to us, be with us in the spring!  
If we can learn to grow the grain you feed on,  
You might be happy here; might even sing.

That dove, she could be that dove. She doesn't have to fly away. She might be happy here, might even sing. If it wouldn't wake Castle, she'd sing right now. What time is it, anyway? Her phone is upstairs and his is on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. It must be after five, maybe even close to six. Oh, shit, it's Monday. She has to go to work. She has to take a shower and hope that any marks that Castle left on her–she hasn't checked, but she knows that there are some–can be hidden under her clothes. She wriggles out from his unconscious embrace, creeps out of the room and up the stairs.

The shower is divine. She stays in longer than usual. The water temperature is perfect. The soap is perfect. The shampoo is perfect. The conditioner is perfect. She finds herself singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'," another favorite of her mother's and something she hasn't even thought of in more than 20 years. It's as if some switch has been activated, and the music pours out of her of its own accord.

Swaddled in a soft bathrobe, she dries her hair, still singing verse after verse of "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'." After quickly applying eyeliner and mascara, she opens the door to her bedroom. On top of her bureau is a mug of coffee. It's the WORLD'S GREATEST DAD mug that she had bought, but there's a pink Post-it note pressed over the last word, with another written in its place. The message now reads WORLD'S GREATEST DETECTIVE. When she picks up the mug to take a sip, she finds two small things behind it. The first is a Hershey Kiss with an almond. The second is a scrap that Castle must have fished from the wastepaper basket. "Nice song," he'd scribbled on it. She looks at it again, more closely. He'd also added a tiny heart.

TBC

**A/N** Thank you again, kind reviewers and readers. I'm back home now with fully functioning internet. To my friends in the north, happy Canada Day tomorrow. To guest reviewer Chacha: yes, there really is such a thing as chocolate peanut butter ice cream. Häagen-Dazs makes it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

The butter has melted and the pan is hot; when he hears her door open he pours in the scrambled eggs and turns down the flame. The bagels are already toasting. After their long and active night–one impressed so deeply in his brain that it will never fade–they both need protein and carbs. Especially Kate, because she's going to work. It's been a while since he's had a first-time morning after, and never anything like this. His happiness is so enormous, and expanding so quickly, that even his loft doesn't seem big enough to hold it. Maybe nothing is. Maybe that's what true joy is: limitless and uncontainable.

But what about Kate? He's certain that she's happy, or as certain as he can be until he sees her, which will be any second. Will she be shy? Nervous? Have some doubts? He hears her heels on the stairs, but he's going to wait until she's all the way down to look at her. He's almost breathless again as he recalls the way she looked and moved beneath him, above him, and curled next to him. And now here she is, impossibly even more beautiful, fully clothed, than she was a few hours ago. She's radiant. Radiant. That's what people say of brides and pregnant women. She'll be even more radiant when they get married, and when she's expecting. He tries to repress those images; she'd kill him if she knew that his mind has dared to go there. She's almost close enough to touch when he decides that she's not just radiant but something else. What? She looks a little mischievous, that's what.

"Good morning," he says.

"Good morning," she replies, returning his smile and raising her mug, the pink Post-it still clinging to the side, though one corner is peeling away. "Thank you for the coffee." She sets it on the counter, and opens her left hand, revealing the Hershey Kiss. "I thought that I'd wait to open this," she says as she removes the foil and then holds the candy between her thumb and index finger. "I didn't want it to melt before I got down here. I wanted to suck and bite while I was with you." She pops the chocolate into her mouth, and pulls her cheeks dramatically inwards. "Mmmmm, delectable." She smacks her lips. "But not half as delectable as you, Castle."

He grabs the oven door handle to steady himself, and watches her crunch down on the two small almonds, chew them, and swallow.

"And these nuts," she adds. "Fantastic as they were, especially with my tongue wrapped around them, they didn't hold a candle to yours."

If he'd had anything in his mouth he'd have choked to death.

She points to the frying pan. "Speaking of flames, you'd better turn off the stove."

Just in time he saves the eggs as well as the bagels. "Sit down, please," he says as he serves them, staving off further distraction by focusing on the plates instead of on her. "We have to have breakfast, especially you. You're going to work and need fuel. I'm staying home, and what I will undoubtedly need while you're gone is a succession of cold showers."

"You're not coming to the precinct today?"

"Not a chance."

"But you're going to call me, right? Or text?"

He raises one eyebrow. "Of course," he says, seductively.

"I might have to take a shower or two myself."

"Send me a selfie."

"Right back atcha, Castle." After eating some of her eggs she carefully puts down her fork. Her face has changed: she looks serious rather than flirtatious. "About last night."

Uh oh. He stops spreading jam on his bagel. "Yes?" he asks cautiously.

"It was a, um, game changer for me. I just want you to know that. I mean, I think it was for you, too, I felt like you said it was, even if you used different words."

"Oh, it was. It was."

"I'm not talking about the sex. Well, I am talking about it, the sex was unbelievable, but what I'm trying to say is that everything changed for me. About you." She's been talking to her lap, not to him, but when he extends his arm across the table to take her hand, she looks up. "And me. And us."

"Are you sure you have to go to work?" he asks quietly. "Because what you said is true for me, but I knew that long before last night. I wasn't kidding when I said that you're it for me. No one else, ever. But I was worried, a little bit, that you might not feel the same, or might have some doubts because of my lousy track record."

"Not any more." She shakes her head and curls her little finger around his. "I do have to go to work, but I didn't want to leave for the day without telling you."

He's ready to burst into song, but first he says, "Finish your bagel."

"No time. I'll take it with me on the subway."

"Be sure to eat it. Promise me."

"I will, I will," she says, getting up from her chair.

"I don't want to be haunted by hideous visions of you dropping it onto the tracks and starting a feeding frenzy among the rats." He takes a few steps to a kitchen drawer, opens in, and takes out a small ziplock bag. "Give me your bagel," he adds, following her to the closet by the front door, where her coat and scarf are hanging. He drops the bagel in the bag, seals it, and gives it back to her. "That's from Russ and Daughters, much too good for rats."

"Thank you," she says, kisses him lightly on the jaw and opens the door.

"Whoa, Beckett! A chaste little peck on the cheek? That's all I get?"

"I can't do anything else," she whispers, walking backwards down the hall. "If I do, or you do, we both know were we'll end up. And it's not at the Twelfth. I'll see you tonight." She blows him a kiss and disappears into the elevator.

Under other circumstances his high spirits might have vanished with her, but not this morning. Back in the loft he sings "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'," every verse and the chorus after each one, while he clears the table and loads the dishwasher. For sentimental reasons, he keeps the pink Post-it and carries it to his office, where he puts it in his desk drawer.

He has two important jobs to do, and the first is getting a contractor for soundproofing. Fortunately he knows something about it from research that he'd done for one of the last Derrick Storm books, though he hadn't used it, after all. He'd kept the notes in his computer; he finds them easily and reads them quickly. Yes, good. He won't have to do the whole bedroom, just the wall that it shares with the office, and the door set into it. Ah, here's the contact information for the man who helped him. If he's still in business, this shouldn't take long. Two clicks later he's on the website of Sound Out; he emails Sam Hornbach, the owner/acoustician, with his request and some details.

For his other job he has to wait until 10 o'clock. No, 9:40, since it will take him 20 minutes to get there and he wants to be the first customer standing outside when the store opens. Maybe he should allow more time: he sets the alarm on his phone 9:30.

What to do until then? Kate crowds everything else out of his mind. He's tingling with the sensory memory of her, how she looks, feels, smells, tastes; the musicality of her voice, the changes in color and pitch. How is this new world they're in going to affect their working life? She has more self-discipline than anyone he knows, and he's a good actor–"thank you, Mother," he mouths–so if they're careful they should be able to hide their relationship on the job. But what about the books? How is this going to affect how he writes Nikki and Rook? In a way, that will be much harder. Until now he has relied on his very good, if he does say so, imagination when writing about Nikki and Rook's personal relationship. But Nikki/Kate is no longer partially imaginary. She is flesh and blood, and oh, that flesh. That soft, soft, pliant flesh.

Maybe it's time for that cold shower. It's time for some kind of shower, anyway, since he smells of sweat and sex and Kate, which is a stirring combination for him but one best not taken out among the public.

He scrubs himself clean and washes his hair, the whole time wishing that Kate were with him. He pictures soaping her back, then running his hands around her ribs to cup her breasts–. It's very steamy in here, he thinks, turning off the hot water but letting the cold beat down on him.

Pulling a towel from the heated rack, he's about to dry off when he remembers what she said about a selfie. He trots into the bedroom, leaving a trail of damp footprints, and returns to the bathroom with his phone. Standing in front of the mirror he takes a few photos that are just this side of pornographic. He chooses the best, and texts it to her with a brief message. "All of me misses all of you."

After getting a clean shirt from the walk-in closet, he starts wondering if he could do some alterations there, too, while soundproofing the room. She'll need closet space when she moves in. The high ceiling would allow a second rack on two sides. Or maybe he should wait. She's going to move in eventually, he's certain of it. But he's equally certain that she'd be skittish about making a move so soon. Okay, fine, he can wait. He'll do some sketches, talk to a closet specialist.

The ping of her text comes while he's buckling his belt.

"Castle!"

Wow, she used an exclamation point. This is a first, or almost. His eyes go back to the screen.

"Give me a warning next time. Ryan was walking by my desk and I dropped the phone on the floor. Lucky for you and me, my reflexes are quicker than his."

He has no trouble conjuring up the scene, and laughs as he types a reply. "He's going to find out some time."

"Fine," she answers. "But not today. And not by seeing you all naked on my phone."

"Hey, that wan't all of me. I didn't send you an X-rated text."

"Well aware that it wasn't all of you, but it was borderline."

"You miss me?"

"Yes, all of you. Including the parts missing from the photo."

"Those parts? I'm happy to send you a photo of those, but you'll have to look when you're by yourself."

"Don't you dare."

"You busy today?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Just catching up on paperwork, the stuff you always avoid, until someone has the bright idea of offing someone in our jurisdiction."

"Ah, speaking of offing someone…"

"Don't even. Are you busy? You going out?"

"About to leave. Have some errands to do. I'll be home by 12:30 in case you want a lunch date."

"I'll let you know."

He's about to type "okay" when the phone pings again. It's Kate. She sent a whole row of hearts, so he sends her two. Five minutes later he's walking towards the subway, having abandoned the idea of driving when rush hour is still on. It's 9:45 when he detrains at 57th and 7th, and from there he walks two long blocks east to 57th and 5th. It's bitterly cold, the last gasps of winter, and while he waits outside on 5th Avenue, he stamps his feet to keep warm. He's the only one waiting, and at ten on the dot a store employee unlocks the door and ushers him in.

Since he knows exactly what he wants and where to find it, he's at the right counter almost immediately.

"May I help you, sir?" the gray-suited salesperson asks.

"Yes, please," he replies, pointing to something in the glass-fronted display case. "I'd like that."

"Certainly." He bends over and is about to pick the wrong item when Castle stops him.

"No, the one to the left of it. Your left."

"Excellent choice, sir."

He'd be flattered, but the guy has probably been instructed to say that to whatever a potential customer wants. If only he knew just how excellent, and appropriate, the choice is.

"I'd like to have it engraved, please."

The salesman produces a pad and pen. "Of course, we'd be happy to do that. If you'd just tell me what you'd like. Initials, perhaps?"

Oh, my God. Initials. Initials are what started this whole thing. If it weren't for initials, there would be no them.

"Um, yes, please. But something else, too. And I need it now. I mean, this morning. Is that possible?"

The already pale man grows paler. "Ordinarily this takes at least two days."

Castle smiles reassuringly. He hopes. "I understand completely. It's just that this is urgent and I will pay any amount of money to have this ready in the next two hours. Any amount." He opens his wallet and produces his platinum American Express card."

"I see, Mister, oh, Mister Castle." The man's eyes brighten. Must be a fan. "Why don't you give me your instructions and I'll find out if we can put a super rush on this."

He doesn't have to wait long. Of course this can be engraved immediately, he's told. No problem, especially for such a loyal customer. He thanks the man effusively and decides to kill the next 90 minutes by window-shopping and maybe stopping for coffee.

On the way out to the sidewalk he feels the buzz of an incoming text, and he stops at the corner to read it.

"I didn't mention that when I took a really good look at your selfie I spilled coffee on my blouse. Lucky thing I keep a change of clothes in my locker."

Another text and a photo follow. "And that change of clothes includes underwear." In the photo she is standing in a bathroom stall, naked from the waist up. A bra and a blouse are dangling from one hand. He thinks about walking to the Plaza Hotel, which is only a couple of blocks away, and renting a room.

"Want to meet me at the Plaza at 12:30?" he types. "I can get us a room."

"A nooner when I'm on duty? Not a chance."

He knew that she'd say no, but he has another idea. "How about meeting for a sandwich instead? In a coffee shop. I'll come down."

"Why did you suggest the Plaza, anyway? It's so far uptown."

"I was doing an errand near by and the thought just occurred to me. When I looked at your indecent exposure."

"Semi-indecent."

He knows his face is red. He hopes that passers-by assume it's because of the icy wind. "Is that a yes? Meet me at that place on Eldridge, you know the one? Looks like it hasn't changed since Roosevelt was president."

"OK. Love that place, but it's so dark in there."

"That's why I chose it. Bye."

He checks his watch almost every minute as he wanders down the avenue, barely noticing what's in the windows. When it's nearing noon he races to the store and gets his package. Thanking the salesperson with off-the-charts enthusiasm, he takes the bag and heads back to the subway.

He's in the back booth about a minute before she arrives. She looks around, so he stands up and waves.

"Hey," she says, sliding onto the banquette opposite him and looking twice as radiant as she had at breakfast.

"Hey," he says, and squeezes her knee under the table. "Want a burger?"

"Yes, please. And don't move that hand any higher."

The waitress arrives with a pair of beat-up, laminated menus, but before she can deliver them Castle says, "Two deluxe burger plates, please."

"How would you like those done?"

"Both medium."

"Cheese?"

"None for me," Kate says.

"Swiss, please," he says.

When she's out of earshot he asks in a low voice, "No cheese? What's up? You always have cheese."

"Not since I tried your exotic-erotic sandwich. That's the only way I want cheese from now on."

"Maybe we could have it for dinner."

"Maybe we could, except your mother and Alexis will be there."

"Good point. Maybe we could share one for a midnight snack."

"Okay."

"Aren't you going to ask me about my errands today?"

"I guess so, if they were fascinating, and not things like buying printer cartridges and Scotch tape."

"Definitely not cartridges or tape," he says, as he pulls a small robin's egg blue box out of his jacket pocket and places it in front of her.

Despite the darkness of the place, he can see her blanch. She moves backwards with a jerk, as if the little box were radioactive. "That's from Tiffany's," she says, her voice quivering.

"It is. Don't worry, it's not what I'm sure you think it is."

Her eyes are huge and her hand moves as if it were going to shove the box back to him.

"I swear, Kate. It's just a little something."

She undoes the white satin ribbon so slowly it's almost unbearable. Finally, she takes off the lid.

"Oh," she says, looking puzzled and maybe a little disappointed. "A whistle?"

"A sterling silver whistle, yes, but do you see what it's attached to?"

"A silver circle?"

"Right. It's a key chain. I thought the whistle might remind you of your beat-cop days. And something else." He puts his hand back in his pocket. "Here, this goes with it. I should have attached it."

"A key?"

"A key to the loft."

"I already have a key to the loft."

"True, but that's the guest key. You're not a guest anymore. This is your key." He presses it into her palm and closes her fingers around it. He looks directly into her eyes and could swear that they've filled up. "Look on the underneath of the whistle, Kate," he urges her.

She turns it over and gives him a slightly watery smile. "It says KHB. And there's a little heart."

"Yeah, I had to pay extra for the heart."

"I hope it's worth it."

"Oh, it is."

Which is when Corinne, their waitress, appears with their lunch.

"Thank you," they say as one.

"That woman has the timing of Ryan or Espo," he mutters.

She laughs. "You're right. But listen, what did you mean about something else? About the whistle reminding me of my beat-cop days and something else. I can't think of anything."

He picks up a fry, dips it in ketchup, chews it, and swallow, all without taking his eyes off her. "One of the greatest movie lines in history. Want to guess?"

"Out of a jillion movie lines? Can you give me a hint?"

"Sure. A huge hint. Lauren Bacall said it to Humphrey Bogart, in their first movie together. They'd just gotten together, too."

Her eyes narrow, and then widen. And then she laughs. "_To Have and Have Not_, right?"

"Right." She has to say it, she has to. And she does.

"You know how to whistle, don't you?" she recites, in the sultriest, sexiest tone he's ever heard. "You just put your lips together and blow."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you for staying with this story, everyone. That makes me very happy. And double thanks to those who take the time to review.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

They got caught on day six. No, night six. Saturday night. Tonight, two hours ago, though technically it's now Sunday.

She supposes that it was inevitable, and it's better that it happened here rather than at the precinct. Embarrassed as she was, she's also relieved that the person who caught them was Martha, not Alexis or any of their friends.

At 11:30 this morning she and Alexis left the loft together. They parted ways warmly at the street corner, Alexis to go to a friend's birthday party which included a sleepover, and she for a long run that would have been even longer had not the cold drizzle turned into hard rain that quickly became driving sleet. Through pure luck she had tucked her Metrocard into the waistband pocket of her leggings, so she picked her way carefully to the nearest subway station and went back to Broome Street. When she got in she saw the light on in Castle's office–he was writing–and Martha at the kitchen counter, coffee in hand.

"Oh, darling," she said dramatically, though that was hardly out of the ordinary. Martha says many things dramatically. "You must get into a hot bath _this instant_."

"I know. Should have checked the weather report before I left. Sorry to be dripping all over the floor."

"Go, go, go," she said, waving towards the stairs. "I'll make you some tea. It warms the body much better than coffee, I find. It'll be ready when you're ready."

"Thanks, Martha." As she half slid across the room in her wet socks, she thought that that was just the sort of the thing her mother would have said. Johanna Beckett and Martha Rodgers were very different, but each had an exceptionally kind heart. It choked her up a little. Even at 30, she could use a mother. She re-entered the kitchen soon after, dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, and her eye landed on a little teapot sitting on top of a candle-lit trivet.

"I thought you should have proper, brewed tea," Martha said, looking up from the paper. "Not a bag. There's such a difference. No comparison."

"Well, it's definitely a treat," she said, plopping down on the opposite stool after pouring herself a cup. "Thank you again."

"It's my pleasure. Besides, you deserve a little TLC."

"Well, you've all been incredibly sweet. I've never had this much TLC in my life."

Martha gave her a slightly enigmatic smile. In retrospect, she thinks it was more than enigmatic, and might have been accompanied by the subtle raise of one eyebrow. "Do you have any plans for today?"

"I know I should be out looking at apartments, but this storm is sticking around until tomorrow morning, so I'll stay in. Maybe read. I don't get to do that as much as I'd like. I'm not in your way, am I?"

"Certainly not. I might take a nap. I've a long evening ahead of me and I don't want to yawn in the middle of _Lend Me a Tenor_, or worse, nod off. I'm having drinks afterwards with the director, that gorgeous Stanley Tucci. I don't know what unjust divinity wasted those stunning eyelashes on a man."

Martha went to her room, leaving a trace of Shalimar in the air. ("When it comes to perfume," she announced recently, "stick with the classics. And in the case of perfume, classics mean French.") Castle–who for reasons that made her both shiver and smile had written not a word for several days–remained in his office, working. She stayed in the kitchen, where she peeled an orange and considered how much had changed since the previous Saturday, when she'd come upon that folder on the same desk where Castle was typing on his laptop, presumably about them. Well, Nikki and Rook, which amounts to the same thing.

On Wednesday, she and Castle had worked on a case for 17 hours straight and then passed out separately in their respective beds. But every other night this week she tiptoed down to his room around midnight and crept back to her own around 5:00, well before Alexis or Martha woke up and half an hour before she usually starts to get ready for work.

No one at work, not even Lanie, whose antennae are stronger and more finely tuned than a satellite's, suspects a thing. Maybe being together here has helped their self-control; for five hours each night in his bed they have none. It's not just the sex–intense and mind-boggling as it is–but the intimacy and the fun and the conversations and the discovering of each other. That's a new experience for her, and for him, too. She wanted to know, thought that it probably was, and finally got the nerve to ask him late last night, while they were a tangle of arms and legs. "Yes," he said, running his big toe along the arch of her foot. "Yes."

It's that, she decided, that made them both less vigilant this evening, and why they let their guard down. Alexis was at her friend Samantha's overnight, and since Martha invariably stayed out late after the theater they figured she'd wouldn't be home until the wee hours. Their mistake.

They could have gone out. Why didn't they? It wasn't just the crappy weather, it was that they could be alone. Here. By themselves. No one else. No one with red hair. No one at all except the two of them. They ordered Chinese food and had a little too much wine and then Castle made popcorn and they settled in on the sofa to watch one of her favorite old movies, _Two for the Road_. Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney were at the top of their game. "God, those two had chemistry," she said at some point, and he slid his hand up her thigh and whispered, "Not as much as we do." They pretty much stopped watching the movie then. Not intentionally. It just happened.

And then Martha happened. When she unlocked the front door at 10:55 and flipped on the light, at least they weren't naked. Not completely, anyway. And at least they weren't having sex. Not quite, anyway. Her bra and sweater were somewhere, somewhere being not on her person. His shirt was mostly off. She was sitting on his lap, straddling him; his mouth was occupied with one of her boobs and her hands were occupied with undoing his pants. More precisely, one hand was pulling down his zipper and the other was–the only even slightly decorous way she could describe it was that her other hand was already busy inside his pants.

The overhead light from the kitchen wasn't that strong, but she felt as though she and Castle were in the glare of 100,000 watts from klieg lights.

"Oh," his mother said, her hand at her mouth.

"Shit," her son said, his hand covering his eyes.

"Oh, my God," she said, her hands flying away from him if he were suddenly a deadly neurotoxin.

At which point all three of them froze in place.

"Well," Martha said an hour later. It was more likely only seconds, but it felt like an hour. "I've seen plenty of tableaux vivants in my day, but none quite like this. Not even in the Sixties."

"Sorry," she said, directing her voice to Martha as she dropped to the floor to recover her sweater, which she pulled over her head only to find that it was on backwards. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"No apologies necessary, sweetheart. I should be apologizing for coming home early. Stanley had to cancel and we rescheduled for next week. If I'd bothered to think I'd have realized that you two lovebirds were taking advantage of being alone."

"Lovebirds?" He squeaked. He always squeaked in situations like this. Not that they'd ever been in a situation anything like this.

"Castle," she hissed. "Put on your shirt, for God's sake." And then, her mouth having finally caught up to her brain, or maybe the other way around, she looked at Martha and said, as if she were a parrot rather than a lovebird, "Lovebirds? You knew? You knew that we, uh, uh, er."

She couldn't bring herself to give voice to what was in her head. Sneaking downstairs every night like a teenager? Sleeping with your son? Not much sleeping going on. Having sex with your son? ****ing his brains out? In bed, in the shower, in the tub, against the door, on the floor.

"I know that you're a detective, and a superb one, but you'd make a terrible criminal," Martha said. "Not that there's any crime involved. Love is never a crime."

"Love?" See? Definitely a parrot.

"Well, if the way you've been looking at my son lately and the way he's been looking at you for considerably longer isn't love, I'm an exceedingly poor reader of expressions, and I've always prided myself on being a good one. It's imperative for an actor." She turned left, took a few steps, and then paused. "I'm off to bed. I'm sure you're about to do the same, but do stay down here, Katherine. No need for you to come up just to go back again. And Richard?" Martha looks sternly at him, flapping a pair of fuchsia leather gloves in her hand. "She's a keeper. The real thing, but I'm sure that you know that." She continued her path across the room and up the stairs, and proceeded to her room.

Only when she heard Martha's door shut did she pick up her bra and throw it at the still-gaping Castle. "Thanks a lot for leaving me twisting on whatever I was twisting on, buster."

He cocked his head, pointed to her neck and said, "I think your sweater's on backwards."

"Really? That's your only observation on this, this crime scene?" She was sputtering.

"Crime scene?"

" 's what it feels like."

"My mother just said that love is never a crime."

"Oh, so you did listen to her. I thought maybe you'd suffered traumatic hearing loss when Martha caught us in here like a couple of fifteen-year-olds."

He gasped. "You were doing that at fifteen? With your hand–, you know, what you were doing to me?"

She grabbed him by the wrist and half-pulled him to his feet. "Stand up. Please. We have to talk about this. Now. In your office."

She made him sit in his chair at his desk, not next to her. No distractions. It was distracting enough having him ten feet away with his adorably messy hair.

"I've never been that embarrassed in my entire life," she said.

"It didn't bother my mother in the slightest," he countered, swiping his hand through the air as if to erase the scene they were discussing. "You shouldn't be embarrassed."

"We're not talking about Martha, Castle, we're talking about you and me. And don't pretend that you weren't mortified. I saw your expression. You know what else I saw? I saw the trail of drool at the corner of your mouth after it let go of my nipple, and I guarantee that your mother did, too."

"Oh, shit," he moaned, as his head sank into his palms.

"See? That's the same thing you did when she caught us. Exactly the same. Covered your eyes and said 'shit'."

He spread his fingers apart and peeped through them. "Drool? There was really drool?"

"Drool, spit, saliva, whatever you want to call it. Yes. There was."

That was when he beamed at her. His whole face was suffused with it. "Well, you're the most droolable person I've ever met, so I think I should be excused."

"Droolable?"

"You inspire drool. You're irresistible. You're droolific. Droolissima. Droolicious."

She didn't want to crack up, but she did. She laughed so hard that she fell over sideways, and before she could sit upright again he scooped her up and carried her to bed, where he tickled her until she laughed all over again, which lead to them picking up where they'd left off with the unfortunate arrival of Martha–and then finishing. They're both out of breath now, they're both sweaty, and they're both very happy.

"So, Castle."

"Mmmm?"

"How did that rate on the droolometer?"

"The droolometer?"

She rolls back on top of him and kisses him in the middle of his chest. "Yeah."

"It's broken," he says, winding a slightly damp strand of her hair around his finger. "You broke the droolometer."

"I did?"

"Yes. It's in little pieces all over the floor. Be careful when you get out of bed."

"I'm not getting out of bed. You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're pretty droolicious yourself."

TBC

**A/N** Thanks to all you wonderful readers. To the guest reviewer who asked after the last chapter: Yes, I'm a New Yorker and a fan of Russ & Daughters.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

**A/N** This chapter has brief mentions of S2 episodes "The Late Show," "Den of Thieves," and "Overkill," but for obvious reasons, in this AU story neither Castle not Beckett gets involved with anyone else, and there are definitely AU events in the "Overkill" storyline.

Her apartment had been destroyed on March 22nd. It's now early May and she's still living in Castle's loft. Alexis seems happy with the arrangement, though she doesn't know that there's an Arrangement, capital A, going on. She likes having someone to talk to–someone to whom she's not related by blood–about boys, about clothes. What will happen when the girl finds out that her father's partner is his partner, capital P? She worries about it, even though Castle tells her not to.

At least she hasn't had to explain to Martha why she hasn't moved out. Lanie is a different story.

It happened nine days after she and Castle got together. Her friend had been at a conference for pathologists over the weekend, but in the morgue that Tuesday afternoon she kept looking warily at the two of them as they stood opposite her on the other side of a body. Lanie's eyes darted to Castle, then slid to her, then back to him. Repeatedly.

Just as the precinct elevator doors opened and she stepped into the bullpen, a text from the M.E. popped up on her phone. It contained the suggestions–more like demand–that they meet after work at their favorite wine bar.

"You're always talking about being relentless in the pursuit of truth, Kate," Lanie said that evening, as soon as they were settled in a small booth. "So I'm gonna be the most relentless person you've ever met until you fess up. I know there's something going on between you and Castle."

"You do, huh?" She looked at the red liquid in her glass so she wouldn't have to look at her relentless friend.

"In my bones, Kate." She tapped a fingernail sharply on the tabletop. "And I'm a doctor, so I know plenty about bones. Also my gut. My gut tells me there's a whole lot of something going on."

"Yeah, well I'm a detective, so I'm an expert on clues, of which you have none." She took a cashew from the little glass bowl in between them and popped into her mouth, not because she was hungry but because she could already tell that she needed to buy some time. After pulverizing the nut into microscopic bits, she swallowed. "Not a clue, Lanes," she said. "Zero."

"Oh, please. Here are some clues." She held up her well-manicured index finger. "Over the weekend I texted you four times, and each time it took you hours to answer. That's a first." Now two fingers are up, the low light overhead catching on the red nailpolish. "When Castle was pointing at something on the body today, his elbow brushed yours and you looked like you were going to faint. In a good way, not in a I-just-inhaled-disgusting-chemical-fumes way." A third finger joins the first two. "You are incredibly good with make-up, but even you can't totally hide that hickey under your left ear."

Her hand leapt to the spot on her neck before she could realize that she'd been tricked. There was no hickey there. Elsewhere, yes, but underneath her clothes.

"Aha!" Lanie exulted. "Gotcha. Don't deny it."

And what could she do then, really, but fess up? She told her how it all started.

"Fine. Adorable, even. I am so happy for you, really, but I need details. As in sex, in case you thought I was asking about something else."

"Lanie! People can hear us!"

"Not if you whisper. C'mon, how is it?"

She dropped her voice and leaned close to her friend. "Oh, my God, about a thousand times better than I ever imagined."

"I knew it! I knew you imagined getting it on with him, even though that was a true confession you wouldn't make."

She took a sip of Merlot, and couldn't stifle a giggle. "Also dreamed. Waaaayyyy better than I ever dreamed."

"So you dreamed about having sex with him, too?"

"Definitely."

"And why is it that I'm hearing about this only now?"

"Well, unlike you, I do like to keep some things private." Over the course of their hour-long conversation, she kept plenty of things private. Always would. That was between Castle and her, and no one else.

Out on the street she swore Lanie to secrecy, gave her a big hug and got one back, and they each headed home. OK, not exactly her home, but.

And then there are the boys. She does occasionally have to update Esposito and Ryan about her alleged search for a new apartment. A couple of weeks ago she said that she couldn't move until she knew how much money she'd get from her insurance policy, which seemed reasonable.

But this morning, out of nowhere, Esposito asks over their first coffee of the day, "Got a new place yet?"

"Can't find anything I can afford," she replies, shrugging her shoulders. The movement reminds her of just where and how Castle had bitten her last night.

"I hear ya," Ryan says sympathetically.

"Why don't you just ask Castle for some money?" Espo asks, stretching a rubber band between his two index fingers. "Dude's rolling in it."

"Are you kidding me?" Is he on to them? He reads her better than Ryan does: he's a lot tougher, and he's known her longer. "Why would I do that?"

"Why wouldn't you? I've seen the best-seller list. Can't miss it, thing's blown up big as a squad car in the Barnes and Noble window by the subway. _Heat Wave_'s been number one for twenty-five weeks."

"So what? He's written a ton of best-sellers."

"A ton of best-sellers that didn't have anything to do with you. This one's different. Nikki Heat is you, Beckett." He shoots the rubber band into Ryan's wastepaper basket. "Castle should cut you in on some of the royalties. Without you, no Nikki. Just sayin'."

To stop her hand from trembling, she presses her palm down hard on top of her mug. Even as she protests she knows that her words are feeble: "She is not me."

"Gotta disagree," Ryan says. "Nikki's a whole lot like you."

"See?" Esposito jerks his thumb towards his partner.

"Why don't you ask Castle for money, then? You and Ochoa have a lot in common, and Ryan and Raley." They wouldn't be having this conversation if he knew how much _Heat Wave_ income Castle has put aside, is putting aside, for the three of them and Montgomery. But that information is Castle's, not hers, to share.

"Maybe I will. He gets a lot of his ideas hanging around us."

"No, Javi. You can't," Ryan says. "I never would. Never. He's the writer. He does all the creative stuff."

"Right," she agrees, probably a little too quickly. "Besides, he's not just hanging around us. You've gotta admit he's a big help on a lot of cases, even if he can be a pain in the ass." She closes her eyes for a moment as she thinks about what a magnificent ass he has. Sensing that her face is beginning to redden, she adds, "Speaking of help, Espo, don't you have some D-fives to fill out?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, and pulls a file folder out of his desk drawer.

In her current state of mind she briefly wonders why the folder isn't purple instead of beige, and if there's a little heart on it. "Get a grip," she silently tells herself, just as the Captain pops his head out of his office to tell them that they have a new case.

Her problem, she learns over the next couple of days, is not Lanie or Alexis or the boys. It's Demming. Tom Demming, the detective from robbery who had worked with Esposito years ago and had teamed up with them a couple of weeks on a case involving the the murder of a thief. Demming was, and is, a smart guy. He also clearly has an eye on her, and flirted with her, which made Castle wildly jealous.

"I hate that show off," Castle said the night they'd closed the case and she had, as usual, sneaked down to his room. "What a peacock. Strutting in front of you every chance he gets. Sickening. I swear you were encouraging him."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Okay, maybe a little," she'd admitted. "But now you know how I felt when you were all over that Ellie Monroe creature."

"I was not all over her," he'd said, almost primly.

"Oh, right. On TV you were–never mind what you were. I threw my slipper at the screen. And your date with her? Next thing you'll tell me is that you were like two sixth-graders sharing an ice-cream sundae."

"May I remind you that I had to go out on that date? I got useful information on the case. Plus you agreed that if I went out with her it would be be a good deflection in case anyone suspects that you and I are together. And remember when she tried to get my shirt off? I triggered the alarm. Pressed your number on my phone and you called back and said there was an emergency at home."

"There _was_ an emergency at home. Namely, if you hadn't come home I'd have gone over there and strangled her."

"Oooh, you were so jealous. And furious. You should have seen your face."

"Of course I was jealous. I could smell her disgusting perfume on you."

"Which I immediately explained to you and washed off."

"Yeah."

"That was fantastic make-up sex, wasn't it?" He'd nuzzled the back of her neck. "In the shower, after I washed off Ellie's perfume."

"It was."

"Wanna try it again? Since I was jealous of Demming."

"One important difference being that I don't smell of his aftershave."

"Better not."

She'd kissed him, rolled over to the side of the bed, pulled off her sleep shirt, and winked at him. "Race you to the shower."

Since then she's had to fend off Demming a few times, but this new case–the murder of a businessman who may or may not have been killed for his collection of rare books–is trouble. Trouble because Montgomery called Demming's captain to ask for the detective's expertise. Demming is more than willing to work with her again and Castle's bristling again. For the last two days the men been waging a testosterone-fueled battle to prove to her that each is superior to the other, and it's driving her crazy. "Guys!" she'd said yesterday. "This isn't a competition." Superficially the competition was over who was right about the case, but she knows what it's really about, and it's ticking her off. Demming's ego won't accept her turning him down, and Castle's ego is apparently too fragile to understand that Demming is no threat to their relationship.

At the end of shift today she drags them into an empty conference, and closes the door.

"Siddown."

"What?" That's Castle.

"Huh?" That's Demming.

"Sit down." She points to two chairs, and waits until they park themselves there. "This behavior has got to stop."

"What behavior?" That's both of them, in unison.

"At least you agree on something, even if it's only to pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about. I've had it with you two, got it?"

"What did I do?" That's Castle.

"I didn't do anything." That's Demming.

"Oh, for God's sake. Stop acting like twelve-year olds in a pissing contest. Each of you has interesting and plausible points to make in this case. If you stopped to listen you'd know that. You're supposed to be co-operating–that's c-o-o-p-e-r-a-t-i-n-g–not trash talking each other. This is teamwork, remember? We're all on the same team."

"He's–"

"He's–"

"Stuff it. I mean it. I can't believe I have to talk this way to a couple of forty-year-olds."

"I'm thirty-six."

"Demming! Listen up. You, too, Castle, and no smirking. I'm the leader of this team, and I expect you to respect that. I know exactly what you're doing, and I regret to say that you're both making a play for me."

"What?"

"What?"

"See? There you go again. Unbelievable. It's embarrassing. You know what Karpowski said to me today? 'I'm waiting for one of those guys to sling you over his shoulder and take you to his cave.' And Harrison? 'Hey, Beckett, you think your home number is written on the wall in the men's room?' I don't want to think what male cops are saying. I can't laugh off that shit. If you want to go outside and beat the crap out of each other in the alley, please do, but it better not be within ten blocks of here. And whoever wins?" She stops for breath and for effect. She wants to be fully in control for her last point. "I'm not the prize. I'm not your trophy. And more to the point? I'm not up for grabs. Now grow up."

She leaves the room and doesn't turn back to see their expressions. Fortunately she already has her bag, and she takes the stairs down to the street. Rather than go directly to the loft, she detours to a little coffee place, orders an iced latte, and drinks it slowly at the back of the room. She'd put her phone on vibrate as soon as she'd left the Twelfth, but she feels the buzz of some incoming texts. They're sure to be from Castle and she's not answering for a while. In fact, she won't answer at all. She'll talk to him face-to-face once she reaches Broome Street. It's a pleasant late afternoon, so she walks.

As she comes down Crosby, she wonders if he's at home or out nursing his wounded pride. When she reaches the lobby she and Sam, the evening doorman, exchange greetings, but when she steps off the elevator she's surprised to find Castle standing there with an enormous bouquet.

"I asked Sam to ring me when you arrived," he says, and holds out the pink flowers. "Peonies mean a lot of things, and they can express both indignation and shame. You're indignant, and I don't blame you. And I'm ashamed. Contrite. Mortified. Apologetic. Remorseful. Hangdog."

"Are you through with this Thesaurus recitation?" she asks, and takes the bouquet from his hand. "I like the last one, though. Hangdog. You do look a lot like a puppy who's being punished."

"I'm sorry, Kate. This isn't enough, but I am."

"I'm glad you're sorry. But do you understand why I'm so angry?"

"Yeah. Yes. I do."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure."

"I'm not so sure. I've had to fight so hard as a woman on the force. Every day. For every inch of ground I gain, I get knocked back half an inch. You should have heard what I had to endure in vice. I shouldn't have to put up with that, none of us should. There are a lot of things I'm not confident about, but that's not one. I do my job really well."

"None better."

"Thank you."

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What you said about your not being up for grabs."

"You're worried about that?"

"Sort of. I mean, yes. You said it."

"I'm not up for grabs, Castle. I'm not because you've already got me."

The relief on his face is immediate. "Could we go inside now?"

"Yes."

"Because I'm hoping that you'll let me kiss you, and I don't want to do it out here."

He doesn't get the chance, at least not then. She's just crossed the threshold when Alexis runs down the stairs. "Hi, Kate! What beautiful flowers. Is this a special occasion? I didn't miss your birthday, did I?"

"No, that's months away. These are from someone at work I did a favor for."

"That's nice."

"It is. Hey, do I smell marinara sauce?"

"Yeah, Dad's making pasta."'

"Good, I'm starving."

After dinner, when Alexis is in her room doing homework, she and Castle sit together on the sofa.

"Are we good, Kate?"

"Yeah. But listen." She hooks his little finger with hers. I've been thinking a lot lately. This is all too hard."

He looks stricken. "What? Us?"

"No, no. Not us. Well, yes, us, but not us. What I mean is that the strain of keeping us a secret is too hard. I'm an idiot, I guess, to have thought that it would be easy. I want Alexis to know, and I want not to have to pretend at work. I think if we tell Montgomery, we'll be okay. I checked the regulations really carefully today, and since you're not paid, you're not officially with the NYPD. Which means it's okay for us to be together."

"Can we ask him right now?"

"No. But you're going to have to get up early tomorrow. I asked him if I could meet him for coffee at six."

"Six? In the morning?"

"Yes, Castle, six in the morning. So we need to leave here by five forty-five."

"That's really early."

"It is."

"So I guess we should go to bed early."

"I guess we should."

TBC

**A/N** As always: thank you!


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

They've been sharing a bed for seven weeks, and until this morning he had never woken before she. Because they're meeting Montgomery so early, she had set her alarm for 4:30 to give herself plenty of time to go back upstairs, take a shower, and get dressed. When her phone buzzes she not only finds his side of the bed empty, but smells something baking. She plucks her sleep shirt from the spot on the floor where she dropped it last night, pulls it on, and walks barefoot into the kitchen. His back is to her and he's placing something on a cooling rack.

"Castle," she whispers. "What on earth are you doing?"

When he turns around she sees that he has flour on the end of his nose. For some reason she finds this so adorable and sexy that if his daughter weren't asleep upstairs she'd insist on a quickie right here on the counter.

Before answering he smiles the smile that invariably hits her right where it counts: in the brain, which floods with dopamine, and between her legs. She briefly reconsiders the quickie. She could drag him back to his room for it, untying his apron as they go. Instead she tightens her quadriceps and attempts to adopt a blank expression.

"Hi," he says. "I made cinnamon rolls to take to Montgomery, in case he needs sweetening up."

"You're a genius," she mouths and points to the stairs. "I'm going up. See you in a bit."

"Right."

At 5:30 on the dot she returns to the kitchen and finds him there again, this time without a floury nose and fully dressed, hoisting a large Thermos. "Made my best coffee. Ready to go?"

"Almost."

Since they're the only people present, she takes the opportunity to kiss him soundly on the mouth, then wipes her lipstick off him with the pad of her thumb. "Now I'm ready." In the elevator to the garage, she dares one more thing, which is to lace her fingers through his. "I can smell the cinnamon even through the box in your tote bag," she says. "If that doesn't win over the captain, nothing will."

It's only when they're in the car that she realizes the nuttiness of them bringing coffee and pastries to a coffee shop, and she turns partway in her seat.

"I know what you're about to say, Kate."

"You do?"

"I almost always do. Just like you read my mind pretty much all the time."

"So what am I about to say, Professor X?"

"Why did I bake something and make coffee when we're going to Java Joe's? A name which, by the way, irritates the hell out of me."

"Because you hate redundancies."

"Bingo."

"Redunancies are good only for dramatic emphasis."

"Yup. And we're not meeting at Java Joe's. That's why I wanted to be early, so we could wait outside for the captain and persuade him to go to the little park."

Castle lets her out at Java Joe's and he parks around the corner. She spies Montgomery coming from the west just as Castle returns from the north.

"Morning, Beckett. And Castle. Didn't expect to see you here, man. You don't usually saunter in until at least nine."

"Special occasion, sir. I asked him to join us."

"Huh." She can see him squinting skeptically even through his sunglasses. "Let's go in."

"Um, there's a slight change of plans, Captain. Castle appears to have brought breakfast, actually has brought breakfast, and suggested that we go over to the little park on Thompson. To eat."

"Special occasion? I know when I'm being hornswoggled, but all right. You're on. Besides, he makes the best coffee I've ever had."

Five minutes later the three of them are bunched around a small table in the shade where no one from the Twelfth is likely to see them. Castle, being Castle, has also packed mugs, cream, sugar, plates, knives, spoons, and paper napkins.

"Okay," the Captain says, his sunglasses now tucked into his jacket pocket. "Spill." He points at her. "You, Beckett. It'll be faster than if Mister Wordsmith explains."

She was so game earlier, but now she's nervous. "I was reading rules and regs yesterday."

"You? What in hell for? I bet you can recite every page in there."

"Just double checking. Wanted to make sure I was right. No, you know, conflict of interest. Fraternizing. Or anything."

Montgomery pulls a piece from his cinnamon roll and eats it, looking steadily at her the entire time, which makes her feel highly unsteady. "Conflict of interest?" He licks a tiny bit of frosting from the corner of his mouth.

"Right." Could this be any slower? Torture. Geez.

"And fraternizing. Like you and Castle dating?"

Castle coughs so hard that coffee comes out of his nose. She, thank God, has nothing in her mouth, so she replies as calmly as possible, "Just like that, sir. Exactly."

"Well, since I didn't haul you into my office a month ago and tell you to cease and desist, I'd have thought that you understood there's no conflict. Not a problem, since he's not officially a member of the force." He looks to his right. "No offense, Castle."

"None taken, Captain," Castle says, recovering his voice but not his motor control as his mug tilts dangerously to one side and coffee sloshes onto the grass.

Has she understood her commanding officer correctly? "You knew? A month ago?"

"Before then, even. I was a detective when you were in grammar school, Beckett. A damn good one, too." He chuckles and shakes his head. "I can almost see the pheromones around your desk when you're both there. Dunno what took you so long."

"Um, didn't want everyone to know. Bunch of gossips."

"I meant why it took you two so long to get together. The pool started, lemme see." He takes another bite of cinnamon roll.

"The pool? There's a pool about us?" She covers her face.

"Sure there is. Time-honored tradition among cops, you know that. Started on April twenty-first."

Castle sits up. "We were already–"

"Shut up, Castle," she says. "At least it was only a few weeks ago."

"Nuh-uh," Montgomery says. "April twenty-first two thousand nine. Just over a year ago."

"But, but. What? Why?"

"I bet it was the red dress," her partner says, a little too smugly for her liking.

"The one I wore when we went undercover in that home invasion-jewel thief case? At that benefit?"

Montgomery nods. "That's it. Lotta talk about the way you two danced together."

"That was work," she insists. "There was absolutely nothing between us."

"Uh huh. Way I heard it, there was absolutely nothing between you when you danced. Not a millimeter. Close as two pages in a book, like the song says. Karpowski started the pool the next day. I got two hundred bucks on you, but it looks like I won't be collecting a dime. Too bad, too. Must be more than three grand in there now and my kid just got braces."

"Oh, my God. And to think I was embarrassed yesterday. I'm transferring to another precinct, I swear."

Castle is almost bouncing in his chair. "What date did you have? If you don't mind my asking."

"If I'm right about when you sealed the deal, I was pretty close. I chose April twenty-first because that was a year after the pool began."

"You were close, Captain."

"Castle! Do you mind? No one needs to know when. That's our business."

"Got to have been around the time of the Scott Dunn case. Castle saved you from your burning apartment. Knight in shining armor. And then you moved in with him."

"I didn't move in with him. I mean, not like that. I had nowhere to go. You ordered me to stay there, remember? He and his family have been really nice about taking me in."

"I'm sure they have. But I started to have a feeling about things changing not long after that."

"So why don't you think you won the pool?" Castle asks cheerily. When they get home she's going to rip him a new one.

" 'cause I think it was earlier than April twenty-first. Beckett's apartment was leveled in March and I figure…" He raises his eyebrows.

"You figure what?"

"I figure it was earlier than April twenty-first, and the only person who put money on a day between beginning of the Dunn case and then was Perlmutter."

"Perlmutter?" She and Castle say that so loudly that the sparrows who were nearby, apparently hoping for crumbs of cinnamon roll, fly away.

"Don't underestimate that guy. You don't need a good bedside manner if you're an M.E. He may be be a curmudgeon, but he's brilliant. You know he got his PhD and MD together, in five years? I never met anyone with a better eye. Or nose. He'd have made a hell of a detective." He drains his mug and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Great coffee. And roll. Thanks, Castle. I've gotta get to work, and so do you, Beckett. The Pillsbury Doughboy here can take his time. And one more thing."

"Oh, God," she says. "What else?"

"No, this is a good thing. Perlmutter isn't a gossip."

"Do the guys know? Ryan and Espo?"

Montgomery laughs. "Not a chance. Esposito is the least romantic guy on the planet and Ryan is too sweet to try to connect the dots about you two."

"I'm going to tell them."

" 's up to you, Beckett. You might want to put Demming out of his misery."

"You knew about–"

"I think pretty much everyone did."

"Well, I already did. Put him out of his misery. In a way."

"It's six-twenty," Montgomery says, tapping his watch. "Now, you gonna walk to the precinct with me?"

"Affirmative, sir."

She takes a few steps away, then turns back sharply to Castle. "Don't worry," she says quietly. "We'll tell Alexis before anyone else." She looks into his eyes. "Oh, what the hell," she murmurs, grabs him by the front of the shirt, and kisses him. "See you later." And with that, she trots to where Montgomery is waiting.

Around 8:30 she gets a text from Castle, who has decided not to come in today. Much as she already misses him, she's also grateful. After the events of yesterday, it's best that he doesn't put in an appearance. She'll also spend idle moments, what few there are, thinking about how to tell Alexis, though she knows that Castle's working full time on it.

"No Castle today?" Espo asks a while later.

"Nope."

"Huh. I'd a thought–"

She cuts him off. "Apparently he's nursing the wounds that I inflicted when I told him and Demming to stop trying to one-up each other on the case. Don't think Demming will be gracing us with his presence, either." She rolls her eyes for his benefit as she picks up the phone. She dials the customer service department at her bank, knowing that she'll be on hold for at least 20 minutes, and has a phantom, one-sided conversation with someone in the NYPD's human resources about an alleged screw-up on her time sheets. When a bank employee suddenly comes on the line with, "Can I help you?" she hangs up in a hurry. But her fake call achieves what she hoped: Espo has stopped looking at her and gone back to work.

When she unlocks the door to the loft at 5:30 her nose alerts her to dinner. "Mmmmmm," she moans as she enters the kitchen. "It smells fantastic in here."

"It should," Castle says. "Alexis's favorite dinner: pork loin with rosemary and garlic, surrounded by thin slices of apples. Also mashed potatoes with an obscene amount of butter, and creamed spinach. I know it's a wintery meal, not what we usually eat in May, but she'll be surprised and happy."

"I think she'll be surprised about our news, too," she says, taking a glass of white wine that he is holding out to her. "I hope she'll be happy."

"Hope I'll be happy about what?" his daughter asks as she runs down the staircase.

"Uh, your Dad just told me what he's cooking and how it's your favorite and I was afraid you might think it was too, you know, heavy."

"Pork loin, Dad? With everything?"

"With everything." He beams at his kid and draws her in for a hug.

"How did I luck out?"

"I discovered by chance that it's National Make an Incredible Dinner for a Redhead Day. Gram's out this evening, so you're getting the incredible dinner. For her I'd probably have had to make some horrible thing centered on broccoli rabe."

She tries not to gape, but wonders if she'll ever get used to how quickly he comes up with things like this. And they almost always work. If he ever turned to a life of crime, he'd make a fantastic con man. "I'm going to go change," she says vaguely. "Got a little dusty looking at old files." What an excuse. Castle would have come up with something a lot more colorful, but all she wants is time alone to calm her nerves before they let Alexis in on their secret. Of course, it's turned out not to be the well-kept secret that they'd thought it was. Lanie essentially knew; Martha knew; Montgomery knew. They're batting almost zero.

It's not easy, but she gets through the meal. By the time Castle produces a somewhat more seasonally appropriate desert, strawberry shortcake, she's given him at least five looks with the intended message of PLEASE TELL HER ALREADY.

"So, Alexis," he says at last, "I know that I said that it's National Make an Incredible Dinner for a Redhead Day–"

"Oh, please, Dad. I wouldn't have believed that when I was in first grade."

"You wouldn't?"

"Don't look so disappointed. I still like the idea. And this dinner was fantastic. But there's a real reason, isn't there?"

He puts down his fork, which is something of an historic moment when dessert is involved. "Yes. There is. You know, Beckett and I have worked together for a year. Really closely."

Her blue eyes sparkle, and she puts her fork down, too. "Did you finally tell her? You did, didn't you!"

"Tell me what?" Why couldn't she have kept her mouth shut? She'd planned to, as long as possible, but she hadn't counted on Alexis talking so soon. She'd thought Castle would deliver his whole speech before the girl said something.

"Yeah, tell her what?"

"That you have this ginormous crush on her. I mean seriously, Dad. It's a miracle she didn't notice ages ago, the way you look at her."

"Actually, Alexis," she says, her mouth opening again, unbidden. It's as if she's a Chatty Cathy doll and some unseen hand has pulled a string at the back of her neck and words tumble out without her willing them to. Quite the contrary. "It was sort of the other way around," she hears her Chatty Cathy alter ego say. "I told him that I had a crush on him. Well, I didn't exactly tell him. We were on this stakeout a few weeks ago and it was late and I was trying to keep my eyes open. Your Dad was napping. Sometimes I hum, or sing to myself, to stay awake. And I started singing, very softly I thought, this Gershwin song 'I've Got a Crush on You.' I was on the second verse and all of a sudden he joined in."

"I wasn't really napping," he says, looking very much like someone with a ginormous crush on her.

"When we finished singing that verse he said, 'Tell me, Kate Beckett, do you have a crush on me?' I was so embarrassed. I just nodded, you know, and said yes. And then, I don't know how I got the nerve, but I did, and I asked him, 'Tell me, Rick Castle, do you have a crush on me?' "

"And I kissed her. Right there in the squad car. I figured that was better than a plain old 'yes'."

It's only when she hears Alexis clapping that she realizes that she and Castle have been looking into each other's eyes the whole time.

"You two are so cute!"

"We thought it was about time we told you. Since, you know, since I'm staying here and everything."

"You're going to stay, right? It's good, isn't it Dad?" She looks at Castle, who smiles and nods. "Dad never let any other girlfriend stay here."

Castle makes a wheezing sound like a vacuum cleaner full of cat hair. She has to do something. "Oh, well," she stumbles on. "I wasn't his girlfriend when I started staying here. I mean, you know."

"But you are now. Obviously. And you're nothing like any of his old girl friends, believe me. You're not going to move out, are you? Please? And you could just move down to Dad's room with him."

"Uh."

"'Er."

"Oh, come on. I just turned sixteen. It's not like you're not adults."

Castle says, with mock seriousness, "And here I've been telling Alexis for at least five years that she's the only adult in the house."

"Not any more, Dad, if Beckett's here."

That's what it takes to break the tension, and the remainder of dinner is easy and fun. She and Alexis load the dishwasher together and when they're done the girl gives her a hug. "I'm really glad about you and Dad."

"Thank you, that means a lot."

"I have to finish a term paper, so I'm going up to work, and then to bed. Plus finals are in two weeks."

"Good night. Sleep tight."

"You, too." She watches the red ponytail bouncing as its owner goes upstairs, and then disappears behind a door. Maybe she won't have to sneak downstairs tonight. "Shut up," she tells herself, knowing that she's blushing. She goes upstairs, reads for about half an hour, brushes her teeth, and goes downstairs. Even though it's fairly early, Castle is lying facedown on the bed. No surprise, really, since he'd been up since 3:30 this morning.

"Hi," she says, flopping down next to him.

"Hi." He picks up her hand and kisses it. "That was quite a tale you spun for my kid."

"I gave up waiting for you to tell her about us. I couldn't take the pressure any more."

"Loved your story about singing in the car. How'd you think of that?"

"I didn't. It just popped out. It surprised me because that's the kind of thing you usually come up with."

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me, Detective." His hand is underneath her shirt and making its way upward. "Do you have a crush on me?"

"You know I do."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Well, now that I have your daughter's permission, plenty. Roll over."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you again! Have a good weekend.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

The game is on in many ways, but only one matters. Castle hasn't hosted a poker night in ages, and he had no trouble enticing Montgomery, Espo, and Ryan to this one. His mother has joined them: she's a pretty good player, in part because she has a superb poker face–poker faces, really, since she has a vast repertoire of them. She can trick at least one person at any table at any time.

His only mistake was letting Beckett sit next to him. Not that he asked, she just took the chair before anyone else could. Early on she took off her shoes. Periodically, and always at a crucial moment, she runs her bare foot up his ankle. He'd do the same but he's wearing sneakers that he'd double-knotted and he can't toe them off. At one point she brushes her hand over her substantial pile of chips and several of them clatter to the floor.

"Oops," she says, in a way that only he recognizes as fakery. "Sorry." She pushes her chair away so that she can gather up the red, white, and blue discs, and while she's under the table she runs her palm seductively along the inseam of his jeans, beginning at the knee and ending with a familiar and thrilling squeeze at his crotch. "Got 'em," she says cheerily, returning to her seat and restacking her chips. Got him, more like it. He bites back saying, "She plays hardball," but it's what he's thinking.

"You're jumpy tonight, Castle," Espo says. "Got ants in your pants or somethin'?"

"You know, Detective Esposito," his mother coos, leaning across Montgomery's plate, "Richard really did have ants in his pants once. It was the summer that he was four years old and we were having a picnic in Central Park. Oh, he was running around like a wild thing, and eventually he got hot and tired, and plopped down about six feet from our blanket."

Uh oh. Espo has unleashed Martha the Anecdotalist. She pauses to take a sip of beer. Keep that audience hanging, mother, he says to himself.

"He had those cute little chubby legs, and he was wearing blue and white seersucker shorts and a tee shirt with Cookie Monster on it." She stops again and beams at him. "Do you remember that, darling? You were crazy about that shirt. 'Me love to eat cookie!' you'd say all the time. And you did, too. That boy could go through a box of Oreos in a day if I didn't watch him like the proverbial hawk."

"That why your little legs were so chubby, Castle?" Beckett asks drily.

Much as he's dreading the rest of this recitation, which for some peculiar reason he has never heard before, he mentally gives his mother credit for her storytelling ability, because it's clearly where he got his. "I love these excruciating excursions through my childhood," he says and groans.

"Go on, Martha," Beckett urges her. "I'm dying to hear about the ants in little Ricky's pants."

"Well, as I said, he sat down on the grass. Now, you may know that he has an uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere."

"Like the break room," Ryan says.

"Like the squad car," Beckett says.

His mother laughs. "I was just about to pour him some lemonade when he toppled over sideways and was out. He looked so sweet and peaceful that I decided to let him nap. And I admit that I appreciated the quiet time."

"Is the end of this anecdote in sight, Mother?"

"Richard, you of all people should understand that you cannot rush a good story." She gestures theatrically at her son, unleashing a jangle of bracelets as they slide up and down her arms. "May I continue?"

"If you must."

Five pairs of eyes are focused on Martha, who smiles knowingly at her expectant audience. "We were in the shade, so he was in no danger of getting a sunburn. But alas, he was in danger of something else, though I didn't realize it. I took out the script of an off-Broadway play that I was rehearsing for, and began going over my lines. Every few minutes I glanced his way to make sure that he was all right. And then all of a sudden he began shrieking. I can still hear it." She shakes her head, as if to rid herself of the memory. "He was screaming as he ran towards me. 'Mommy! Mommy! The ants are biting me! They're eating me!' And sure enough, he was covered in an army of ants. He had gone to sleep on top of an anthill, can you imagine? I had to pull off his shorts and his Big Bird underpants right there, all while he was howling."

Four of the five pairs of eyes are almost weeping as their owners laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Esposito gets in the first shot.

"You're the only person I know who's been caught bare-assed in Central Park, bro. Twice. 'scuse my French, Mrs. R."

"Quite all right, Detective," she replies.

As the evening progresses, everyone remains in good spirits. At a previously arranged moment, his mother looks at her watch and announces, "I'm afraid this is it for me. I have an early appointment tomorrow and need my beauty sleep." Montgomery rises from his chair and she waves him down. "Such a gentlemen. Please don't get up."

"I'm glad to be called a gentleman, but I'm actually getting up because I have to call it a night, too. We're leaving at six tomorrow morning on a road trip to Maryland. My mother-in-law's birthday. We'll let the younger crew keep on playing here."

About half an hour later, Beckett rakes in a hefty pot. "Come to mamma," she says.

"What did you have?"

"You really want to know, Ryan?"

"That's why I'm asking."

She turns over her cards and he gapes. "You got nothin'! You bluffed us with nothin'."

"The queen of hearts is not nothing," she says.

He seizes the moment. They'd discussed a slew of options, but this unforeseen one is far better than any of them. "The queen of hearts is definitely not nothing," he agrees.

"It is when there's not even another queen there to make a pair."

"I think Castle was talking about me, Ryan."

"Say what?" Espo asks.

"I think he was talking about me. Weren't you, Castle?"

"I was."

"You were?" the boys say that, as one.

"It's cute when you guys do that," Beckett observes.

"Not as cute as when we do, Kate."

"Kate? You called her Kate?" The boys again.

"Yup. Kate. My queen of hearts. The woman who has stolen my heart."

"Awww," Ryan says, looking misty and possibly approaching teary. "Really? You guys are together? That's great."

Espo, on the other hand, looks anything but teary. "Good thing the Captain's not here."

"He knows, Javi. He knew even before we told him. It was getting hard for me to pretend like nothing had happened between Castle and me. I did some research and thought we'd be okay since he's not on the force. We talked to Montgomery a couple of days ago, and it turns out we are. Okay, that is. No problem with us being together."

"What do you mean he knew?"

"He figured it out weeks ago. Kind of embarrassing. I thought we'd been so careful."

"He's only pissed off because he didn't win the pool," Castle adds.

"He didn't? Dude, he had something like April twenty-fifth."

Ryan corrects him. "Twenty-first."

"So who–. Wait, can't be. No one else had a date around now except–. No." Espo's indignant. "You telling me it's Perlmutter? Perlmutter's walking away with it? Biggest pool we've ever had. He chose April third. I coulda had that. I liked the four-three combo, but no, I went with my birthday. Damn."

Since the boys are apparently oblivious to anyone but themselves at the moment, he mouths to Beckett, "April third? Did Perlmutter bug this place?"

She gives him the eye, and in international sign language for shut the hell up mimes zipping her mouth closed. Still looking angry, she turns to the boys. "Geez, Espo, nice to know all you care about is the money, not that Castle and I might be really happy."

"I dunno about him," Ryan chimes in, obviously trying to be a peacemaker, "but I'm really happy for you two. I've been rooting for you. Kind of pathetic that I'm a detective and see you practically every day and didn't catch on. Of course, neither did my partner, here." He smiles and raises his glass. "Here's to ya."

"Yeah," says Espo with a trace of a smile as he lift his bottle of beer. "Here's to ya." He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "But Castle? You take good care of Beckett or I will haunt you the rest of your life. Got it?"

"I can take care of myself, Espo. I'm not a frail little flower."

"Don't need to tell me that, Beckett. It's just a figure of speech. But I'm still warning your guy there."

"Warning taken," he says.

The mood warms up again as they play a few more hands. "Time to cash out," Espo announces, stretching his arms over his head and yawning unconvincingly.

"You just want to quit because you're ahead for once," Ryan says.

"Maybe it'll relieve some of the agony of losing the pool," Beckett adds.

"Yeah, right. Perlmutter. Still can't believe it."

When the boys have left and he and Beckett have tided up, she sits down on a kitchen counter stool. "That went pretty well, didn't it? Could have been a lot worse."

"Espo's really protective of you."

"I know. We go way back. We overlapped in Vice for a while and he always had my back. Told off some of the worst of them. In some important ways, he's the brother I never had."

"And you're the sister."

"Mmhmm. He really does want us to be happy, you know. He just needs a little time to get used to it."

"You know who didn't take any time to get used to it?"

"No. Who?"

"Me."

She laughs his favorite kind of laugh, a gentle rolling one that finishes in her eyes. "Big Bird underpants, huh?"

"Afraid so."

"I bet you looked cute in those."

"Maybe I should see if they come in adult sizes. I could still look cute, don't you think?"

"Not as cute as you'd look out of them."

For the next two weeks they don't advertise their relationship, but they don't completely hide it, either. WPA, he calls it: Workplace Professionalism Associates. He's run into Demming a few times; they ignore each other while also exchanging death-ray looks if no one else is around. He can't help it: the guy still gets under his skin.

The only downside to his relationship with Beckett is that he's way behind on his current Nikki Heat book. Gina the Destroyer leaves him threatening voicemails and acidic emails, which he mostly ignores.

Freed from the pretense of staying in the guest room, Kate had moved downstairs. "Castle," she said to him last night as they were getting ready for bed. "You can't hold her off forever. And I don't like being the reason you're not getting your work done."

"Well, I'm not doing any this weekend. It's Memorial Day. Unofficial first day of summer in the Hamptons and official first visit there by you. I will be your guide in all things."

"So, I'm finally really going to see this fabled place of yours? I was beginning to wonder it was a figment of your imagination."

He pulls back the covers on his side of the bed. "I told you, I wanted all the repainting done before you saw it."

"And did you get that exorcist?"

"To rid the house of any lingering spirit of Meredith? Yes."

"More important, did you really get rid of the bed? Because I swear I'm not inheriting one that used to be hers. Hers and yours."

"I did. New bed, new mattress, new box springs."

"I should hope so. Especially the springs. And maybe the headboard." She sounds even more wicked than she looks.

"Ooh, that's promising."

"It is. I promise."

When they leave for work this morning he hides an envelope of photos in his pocket. Throughout the day, every time she gets up from her desk he props up another picture of the Hamptons against her cup of pens and pencils. Every time she returns he describes it.

"Ocean view from the patio. It doesn't get any better than this."

Or, "This is the pool. Don't forget your bikini."

"Not planning to wear a bikini, Castle."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I'm planning on skinny dipping."

Or, "Here's the outdoor kitchen. Cool, right? Hot, but cool. Not unlike you."

Or, "Check out the extra faucets in our tub. Know what they're for? You'll never guess. Salt water. I got salt water piped in."

"Why?"

"What a question. Because if it's too cold to go in the ocean, you can bring the ocean inside, and make it any temperature you want."

Around 3:00 she goes to talk to Montgomery in his office about an old case–one that predates his arrival at the Twelfth–and he makes some notes on his phone about what to cook over the weekend. He's in his chair next to Beckett's desk and doesn't hear the elevator door open. He does, however, look up at the sound of an unpleasantly familiar voice. "Gina?"

"I'm surprised you recognize me."

"You're unforgettable," he says, getting to his feet.

"Is there a room in here"–she looks around the bullpen with no attempt to hide her disgust–"where we can talk?"

"Sure. An interrogation room. Which is probably appropriate, since I have the feeling you're about to interrogate me."

"You're damn right I am."

And she does. Does he have writer's block? (No.) Has he forgotten the terms of his contract? (No.) Is he aware that he's two full months past deadline? (Yes.) Is he going to do something about it? (Yes.)

"It's all in my head, Gina. I'm taking the whole month of June off from here to write in the Hamptons. You'll have a perfect manuscript before July Fourth, my personal day of liberation."

"Except that you have another book due in eleven months."

"Not a problem. I'm bursting with inspiration."

"I bet you are." She stands by the door and waits for him to open it–not because she demands that of a man, but because she's not going to touch the doorknob, which she's eyeballing as if it were a carrier of the plague.

As they walk out, two things happen. It's an unholy confluence, as Beckett approaches from their right, Demming from their left, and all of them come within a footstep of colliding. The elevator clanks open, and Gina and Demming stalk inside.

"Hello," the well-dressed detective says to the well-dressed publisher.

"Hello," she replies. They stare icily at Beckett and him, and the door shuts.

"Wow," he exclaims to Beckett. "That was a revoltingly close call. I wonder if they're descending into hell together?"

"Maybe. But you know what? Just think. If I'd never found that folder on your desk, you might be leaving with her, and I might be leaving with him."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you, as always, wonderful readers. There will be a brief epilogue in a few days. After that, a new story with a surprising...


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

Epilogue

He really had spent the entire month of June at the Hamptons, which was hard on both of them but made the weekends that much more delicious. She had been a little apprehensive about fitting in, since the so-called Hamptons Scene was definitely something she was less than eager to join or even look at from the fringes.

"Party Girl's not my middle name," she'd told him a little shyly on Memorial Day.

"I should hope not," he'd said, toweling off after doing 20 lengths of the pool. "Party Girl would be two middle names."

She needn't have worried. He may have been–no, definitely had been–a party heartier in the past, but those days are long gone. They sometimes go out with a few of his friends, or go to a neighbor's barbeque, but it's low-key. What they really relish is being together, spending time with no one but each other. Alexis is at a pre-college science program for eight weeks, and Martha comes and goes. Her father had come out for a happy weekend, having told them long before that he'd also known that they were a couple.

Since Castle finished the edits on his book in late July and she has plenty of vacation days in the bank, she takes off the first two weeks of August–the same time that Martha and some of her friends go on a road trip to summer theaters in the Northeast.

"Gotcha all to myself, Castle," she had said the first evening of her vacation, her elbows propped on the edge of the pool as he had come out from the kitchen with a bowl of grapes.

He'd set the bowl on the table between a pair of chaise longues, and taken a few steps closer to the water. "And I've got you all to myself." He'd looked down at her and grinned. "All of you, in the altogether, all to myself. Where's your bathing suit?"

"Right where yours should be. Not on," she'd said, slipping below the surface. Just as she'd reached the far end of the pool she'd felt his hand at her waist. A hand that had very quickly slithered up to her breast. "I sense," she'd said, tilting her head back so that she could see him, even in the near darkness, "that I have you in the altogether now, too."

"Did you know this is my favorite time of day?"

"Because we're naked? Because it's almost bedtime?"

"Well, there's that. But what I was going to say was that it's astronomical twilight, the beautiful last stage of dusk, and what makes today's astronomical twilight totally amazing is that the most heavenly body I've ever seen is in my arms."

It had been corny, but it had also been sweet, and adorably nerdy that he knew about astronomical twilight. "I hope you haven't said that to a lot of women."

"Not one. Until you. And it will never be anyone but you."

She'd turned around to face him. "Will it swell your head if I tell you that you're a pretty celestial body yourself?"

"You set me up for what I'm about to say, didn't you?" He'd laughed and it had vibrated against her. "It'll swell both my heads."

"Good. That's what I was hoping."

And that had been the last thing that either of them said for quite a while, until they were lying on their backs on the bluestone terrace, still faintly warm. "I love that you can see the stars so well here," she'd said, and squeezed his hand. "They're almost invisible in the city."

"It's one of the reasons I wanted this place."

"It's one of the reasons I love visiting."

That had been a week ago, but she still remembers viscerally how he had responded. He'd tried to cover it up, but she's so attuned to him now, in every way, that she had known that he'd flinched. She hadn't understood why, not at first, and she hadn't asked because he hadn't said anything until a minute or so later, when he'd started talking about constellations. Still, she'd been positive that he'd reacted to something she'd said, and by the time she'd replayed it in her head several times, by the time she'd finally figured it out, he'd been asleep next to her in bed. Too late she'd realized exactly how he felt, and what she had done to make him feel that way. It was the simple, ordinarily harmless word "visiting." It had been anything but harmless this time. She had referred to herself as a visitor here, when he treats her as anything but, thinks of her as anything but. She hasn't been a visitor in any part of his life, in any place he calls home, for months. She's certain that she's wounded him. She hadn't apologized for the stupid, stupid, stupid thing that she'd said because he hadn't said anything at all. He'd pretended that he hadn't noticed, but she knows that she'd crushed his heart. She'd thought of waking him up to apologize, but she hadn't. Why? Because he would have brushed it off, said it was nothing, said he was being too sensitive.

A full week later it's still gnawing at her. She and Castle have had a wonderful time, and she shoves her worry down so deep that he doesn't detect it. But for seven days she has wondered if some part of her had wanted to call herself a visitor because she couldn't make the leap to something else, to something permanent. In some unexplored corner of her psyche, had she been hanging on to noncommittal? How could that be?

She's done a lot of exploring this week, a lot of secret, painful self-examination, and now, exactly 168 hours later, she's done. No question, no doubts. A plan has arisen, full-blown, in her head, and she's going to put it in motion. Now. A quick scan of the house proves fruitless; she needs something. It's imperative. She can't do without it. Fortunately, stores are open late.

He's reading on the sofa, absorbed in a new book, _A Visit From the Goon Squad_. "Castle," she says. " Castle. Castle." On the third iteration he looks up and smiles.

"Sorry. I lost track of everything. You okay?"

"Fine. I just have to run into the village for something."

"You sure you're all right?"

"Positive. Go back to your goons." She's halfway to the door when she pivots. "You want anything?"

"Nope. I'm good."

If she'd asked him that question last week, would he have said, "I already have everything I want" instead of "I'm good"? Probably. It makes her want to run back to him and beg his forgiveness, but she keeps going. She has a plan.

Fifteen minutes later and $5.89 lighter, she's back in the house. "Hi," she calls to him.

"Hi," he responds, waving vaguely but obviously deep into the book again.

She's glad. It gives her time. She runs upstairs to their bedroom and gets to work. First, she gets a piece of paper from the desk drawer and cuts it into four thin strips. Using a brown Sharpie that she'd just purchased, she carefully prints one word, in capital letters, on each of bit of paper. Then she opens the bag that she'd bought at the same drug store, shakes four pieces of candy out of it, and even more carefully unwraps them. She winds a paper strip around each one, and wraps it up again. Satisfied with her handiwork, she takes the four candies and the bag downstairs to the kitchen, fills a small dish, and returns to the living room.

He hasn't moved. Maybe she shouldn't interrupt. Yes, she should. This is more important than that book, even if it has gotten reviews for which many writers would sell their souls.

"Castle?" She tickles the bottom of his foot, which always gets his attention. "Would you like some candy?"

"Have I ever said no to that question?"

"Probably not. But this better not be the first time." She chooses one and drops it into his open palm.

"You trying to fatten me up or something?"

"Nope."

"Or make me even sweeter?"

"Not possible. Go on, eat your candy."

"Bossy. I like that." He looks in his hand. "Ooooh. You haven't given me one of these since you know when."

"I do know when."

"Why haven't we had these every day?"

"Same reason you don't drink Champagne every day, Castle. Then it wouldn't be so special. Celebratory."

He sits up. "Are we celebrating something?"

"Eat your Hershey Kiss."

"With an almond." He peels off the foil, pays no attention to the hand-made paper strip that's emerging from the top and then drifts downward as he pops the chocolate into his mouth. "Mmmmmmm," he says, eyes lighting up as he points to his cheek. "I'm sucking on it."

"I see that you are. But the paper, the uh, little strip? It fell onto your lap."

"Oh. Okay." He crumples it and drops it onto the coffee table. Dammit.

"Have another," she says, making sure that she has the right one before pressing it into his hand.

"Wow, Beckett. You trying to get me drunk on Hershey Kisses with almonds?"

"Not exactly."

"Because you know what they do to me. Especially if I'm also watching you eat one." He hold out to her the piece that she'd just given to him. "Here. Have this."

"No, no. You have that one. That's yours. I'll take another. Please."

His eyes are still sparkling, but they're also narrowing. "This one isn't poisoned is it?"

"No. I promise. Tell you what. If you unwrap it, I'll eat it."

Looking directly at her and not the chocolate, he unwraps the Kiss, wads up the foil and the paper, and passes the candy to her. "Here you go. I'm not taking my eyes off you 'til you finish sucking the whole thing. And nibble the nut, of course."

She eats it far more quickly than she would have at any other time, and sits down on the floor next to him. "Castle, didn't you notice anything different about these?"

"Why? Are they a special vintage that I don't know about?"

"The wrappers," she says.

"The wrappers?"

"The little strips of paper."

He picks up one and smoothes it out on his thigh. "Oh. It says YOU."

Shit! "No, no. The other one. I mean, first the other one and then that one."

Looking suitably mystified, he retrieves it and reads it. "WILL. It says WILL. WILL YOU."

She thrusts two more pieces into his hand. "Now these."

For the first time in his life he's far more interested in the outside of a package than the inside. He takes the two papers and reads them to himself before he speaks. She has moved onto her knees in front of him.

"MARRY. ME? WILL YOU MARRY ME?"

"Yes, Castle." She reaches for his hand. "Will you marry me? I don't want to be a visitor any more."

He's transfixed, at least that's how he appears to her. She doesn't know what else to say, so she adds, "Please?"

He takes her hand and presses it against his chest. "Feel that? You moved in there a long time ago. Yes. Yes, I will marry you."

She sometimes forgets how strong he is, as now, when he lifts her off the floor and onto his lap with one arm. And then he kisses her and she melts faster than chocolate in the hot sun. "Let's go to bed," she whispers into his neck.

"Yes. And tomorrow lets find a baker who will make a wedding cake in the shape of a Hershey Kiss."

"With an almond. Because I'm nuts about you."

**A/N** That's a wrap–or an unwrap–for this story! Thank you all for sticking with it and for so many kind words. I'll be back very soon.


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